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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879410">The Last of His Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill'>CoffeeQuill</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Archery, Blood and Violence, Bounty Hunters, Discrimination, High Fantasy, Human Baby Yoda, Jousting, Light Romance, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Other, Past Violence, Slurs, Swordfighting, Tournaments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:21:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t joust,” says Din, out of breath.</p><p>“You do now,” says Cara, and she gives him a grin before swinging in again. He deflects it with a ring of the sliding metal.</p><p>----</p><p>After escaping the clutches of Moff Gideon, Din and his foundling travel the country in search of the boy's magical people, armed with naught but beskar and horse. As money runs tight, a return to bounty hunting seems their only option. Cara enlists his help in bringing in a difficult target, but <i>help</i> involves his participation in a tournament, competing for a handsome pay.</p><p>To take care of his son, Din accepts, only to receive far more than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Baby Yoda &amp; The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) &amp; Din Djarin &amp; Cara Dune, Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) &amp; Paz Vizsla, Cara Dune &amp; Original Character(s), Din Djarin &amp; Cara Dune, Din Djarin &amp; Cara Dune &amp; Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin &amp; Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Roads Hard Traveled</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by all the art of fantasy versions of the Mandalorian.</p><p>Fic theme - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFawgUfNXP8">The Last of His Name</a></p><p>My <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Shh. I know.”</p><p>But the child does not care to be shushed. He whimpers and cries, squirming against Din’s arm. Din adjusts the reins in one hand, drawing the fur-wrapped toddler closer to his chest, keeping Crest at a steady walk as he holds the child in the saddle. “Calm down, <em> ad’ika,” </em>he says, running his thumb over the baby’s arm, but the boy kicks his feet, relentless in his discomfort.</p><p>Din cannot blame him. They have been traveling for weeks now, the countryside stretching long before them as they travel down south, and the child is vocal about his displeasure towards sitting on a horse for so long. But making good time means moving at a steady pace and setting up camp only when the sun has set and the road is too dark and treacherous for navigation. “Papa!” wails the child, squirming hard to break free of Din’s grip. “Off! Off, <em> Papa!” </em></p><p>“Not yet,” says Din.</p><p>As the child breaks into tears, his cries only echo in the expanse of land before them. The High Road that cuts down from the north through to the south is long and winding, surrounded now by trees. A thick fog has descended onto the land, the skies overhead grey and ready to open at any moment. They’re alone and have been so for miles. A brisk breeze blows past, the usual winds of winter turning to spring, and the child pauses just a moment in his misery to shiver in his wolf fur and cuddle against Din. Din hunches over, letting the child snuggle in against his armor, and draws his fur cloak around them both.</p><p>“Papa,” the boy whimpers again, tears streaming down his cheeks.</p><p>“Let’s walk,” says Din. He pulls Crest to a stop, then gathers up the boy into his arms, holding him with one. He slips out of the saddle, his armor rustling as his boots hit the ground, and sets the boy down on his feet. He turns back to Crest, taking the reins, and begins to walk. “Keep up.”</p><p>The boy burrows his face down into his fur collar, where it’s held together by a dragon bone, and begins to walk. He’s gotten much better at it; when Din found him, he was crawling, just beginning to get on his feet. Now, he walks at Din’s side, slow but steady. He’s a good child, obedient if fussy, and only a few times is he distracted by pretty rocks or the first blooming flowers. He reaches up and takes Din’s hand. They walk like that, and go slower than Din would prefer. But soon the sun begins to set.</p><p>“This way,” he says, gentle in pulling the boy’s hand to guide him. They start off the path and into the thicket. Crest dutifully follows. They walk for a few minutes until the path has been left behind them and they find a small area, encircled by trees, where the ground is flat if covered by leaves. “We’ll sleep here,” he says, and the boy sits down. Din takes Crest’s lead to a low tree branch and loops it around before he grabs the bedrolls from the back of the saddle. “You want to help?”</p><p>The baby looks at him, then nods and begins to get back up. Din gives him his bedroll, then kneels down, and the baby stands beside him. The baby drops the roll, holding one end, and Din rolls out his own. “Lay it out,” he says, the kid stares at him before he leans down and pushes the rest of the bedding. Din leans over and unrolls the rest, tugging it into place. “Good.”</p><p>The kid smiles.</p><p>He sits on his bedroll, watching as he’s told to, as Din gets their gathered tinder and kindling from the saddle bags. He sets up a firepit and with rocks, sparks a fire, blowing until it grows. Once the warmth begins to grow, the baby shuffles closer, and Din puts a hand on his back. The kid’s stomach rumbles.</p><p>He looks at the child. He still has some light left. He looks around, then to where his bow and quiver rests on the saddle clip. He frowns, then gets up. “Stay here,” he says, his voice firm. “I’m going to hunt.”</p><p>“Papa?” the child looks up at him.</p><p>“Stay. I’ll be quick.”</p><p>“‘Im…. ‘Im cold. ‘Im cold, Papa.”</p><p>“Keep by the fire.”</p><p>He gets up and grabs his quiver, clipping it to his belt, and takes his bow. As he nocks an arrow, he sets off into the trees, dim light still shining through. The leaves are soft beneath his boots, letting him walk in silence, and when he glances back the child does not follow.</p><p>
  <em> Afraid. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m not going far. </em>
</p><p>The child’s mind recedes from his own.</p><p>Squirrels are not difficult to find. He shoots down one, then another, managing to pierce the second as it jumps to another branch. Both bodies are dropped into the pouch on his belt, arrows wiped clean on his trousers and replaced in the quiver. Hunting for food is difficult on the road as is, made more difficult when there’s a small child he can’t take with him. As the boy has gotten older and smarter, it is easier. He knows to stay at the fire with Crest. But Din does have a sensation of unsettledness as he creeps between the trees, eyes searching for any sign of a feast on four legs. He doesn’t know if deer frolick in this area.</p><p>He shoots down another squirrel.</p><p>He heads further into the trees, but there is no more game that he can see. He lets himself climb a tree, beskar plates clinking together as he hefts himself up onto one branch, then a higher one, but the better view doesn’t reveal anything wonderful. A deer would be glorious luck. But luck that he has never had.</p><p>He begins to walk back. His knee aches. His limp becomes more pronounced when he’s this tired.</p><p>
  <em> Coming. </em>
</p><p>The child is not paying attention, and so doesn’t respond. Din’s mind feels… alone.</p><p>He continues to walk. Another squirrel is shot down, then a fifth, and it may be enough to satisfy them for the night. Guilt begins to tighten its grip on his stomach — it would not be the first time that the child has gone to sleep hungry in his care. Since Gideon’s death, since traumatic events that have left Din with a constant sense of anxiety and hesitance about who he trusts as well as relentless pains, he has only had one mission. Find the <em> jetii. </em>Find the child’s people.</p><p>But he hasn’t been able to. The night’s darkness grows thicker. His knee aches, feeling as though he’s being stabbed with every step. But there’s a soft snort and he looks over.</p><p>A deer lingers nearby, ears pricked and tail swishing. Din freezes, and the deer’s head turns towards him. For a moment, they only look at each other, and he’s slow to draw. He nocks an arrow and lifts the bow, drawing the arrow back to his helmet. The string creaks and neither move. Din lets out a breath. “Don’t run,” he whispers.</p><p>
  <em> FEAR. </em>
</p><p>The emotion slams into him as though screamed into his mind’s ear, echoing into nothing, and the arrow flies into empty air. The deer turns to flee, but Din is already launching into the other direction, the fear of the gods driven into him with a blacksmith’s hammer. His entire body is cold as he sprints over the ridge, almost slipping on rotten leaves as he heads back for the child.</p><p>“Kid!”</p><p>The fire comes into view, and <em> fear </em> lances through him once again. <em> Papa. </em>He pulls another arrow from his quiver as he flies down the hill, a sharp “Hey!” echoing through the trees. He nocks the arrow and slows at the edge of their camp.</p><p>The child is curled up on one side of the fire and crying. Beside Crest stands a man who digs through the saddle bags, cloaked and hooded in all black. Crest is nervously stepping in place, always responsive to the child’s mood, and the man whips around. His eyes are wide and he steps away, raising empty hands into the air.</p><p>“I’ll go,” he says. “I have nothing. I’ll g—”</p><p>The arrow finds his chest, and the man collapses back on the ground, gasping for air. Din pulls a second arrow and the man throws a hand up. “Wai — wait—”</p><p>He fires, and the man falls still.</p><p>All that’s left is the child’s cries and Din walks over, kneels down, and unstraps his helmet to lift it off. He pulls the boy into his arms and the child sobs, face burrowing into his neck. “Papa!” he wails, trembling, and Din rubs his back as a cold breeze runs through his sweat-soaked hair. “Papa…”</p><p>“I’m here.” He leans his chin on the boy’s head, then presses a soft kiss to his hair. “I’m right here, <em> cyar’ika.” </em></p><p>The boy clings as hard as he can, and Din will not rebuke him for it. He holds the boy as he fetches their blankets, wrapping him tighter in the fabric, and the boy only lets go so Din can skin and cook the squirrels. Once they’ve eaten, the child is back into his arms.</p><p>Only one bedroll is used that night.</p><p> </p><p>Din’s <em> ba’buir </em>used to tell him stories, and the stories went like this.</p><p>There were strange forces at work in this world, and if Din were lucky, he would never cross any of them. The force of evil has had its roots in the earth like that of a tree, lasting long and strong and only one with the right tools and the right strength could bring down the tree. But one tree was nothing in a forest where roots interconnected. And if he were truly lucky, he would never meet a <em> jetii. </em>One who manipulated such worldly forces for their own gain, who stole away gifted children from their families. They were the rotting trees that bled into the streams and poisoned the water.</p><p>“The only good <em> jetii </em>is a dead one,” she would declare.</p><p>His <em> bavodu’e </em>would agree, and soon Din would be sent to bed.</p><p>Now, Din lies on the ground beside a dying fire in the cold, his cloak given up to warm the jedi child in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Nevarro’s gates come into view the next morning.</p><p>The fog has lifted but the sky opens with it, leaving them drenched as they wake up, pack the camp, and resaddle. The boy is nothing short of cranky, a sour expression on his face that will not brighten, worsened when they have to mount Crest again. But once the gate approaches, the nightmare prepares to end. Nevarro is no grand fortress, spread across the land with buildings that number the stars in the sky, no citadel or palace that looms over its keep, no banners that boast of the families housed within its walls. It’s plain, simple, once an Imp stronghold, and certainly not as grand as the capital. Instead, it’s… home. Or it once was. They’ll take a room at the inn near the common house. He’ll take a job or two, as much as it takes to get them decent funds, and there will be people he can rely on or pay to watch the child as he works.</p><p>They pass through the walls with little trouble. The guards recognize him and just wave them through. It’s nothing but a relief to get through the process with ease and Din adjusts the child in his arms as they continue through.</p><p>First, to the common house.</p><p>He ties Crest’s reins to the post beside other horses and takes the boy’s hand, walking inside. They’re hit with warmth; the newly constructed building has two additional fireplaces, something Karga had bragged about according to Cara’s letters. Bounty hunters, as usual, fill the room, talking amongst themselves in groups as they drink. Both drip as they walk through, and the hunters turn to look, stepping out of their way.</p><p>“‘M hungry,” the kid mumbles. The scent of cooking food wafts through the air.</p><p>“Soon,” says Din.</p><p>“The little soldier!”</p><p>Karga sees them before they can see him, and a hunter moves aside to reveal him. He sits at the same booth as always, lounging back against the seat, and Din lifts the child onto his hip before he sits down. Wet clothing squelches as they sit and the boy puts his hands on the table, barely seeing over at Karga. He waves his hand. Karga waves back.</p><p>“You’ve returned,” says Karga, turning his gaze on Din.</p><p>“I need work,” says Din. “What jobs do you have?”</p><p>Karga leans back, silent but for the smirk on his face that speaks volumes on its own. “You still have the child,” he says. “I presume you haven’t found much.”</p><p>Din frowns, then glances down towards the child who only looks back up with tired eyes. No, he hasn’t found anyone like the boy. His search for his kind, his order, whatever sort of people he’s part of — it’s all been for naught. “No,” he admits. “We followed whispers up into the mountains, through the deserts, up and down the coasts.”</p><p>“Have you tried Coruscant?”</p><p>Din sets his jaw. “No. Why would I find a sorcerer in the <em> capital city? </em>The je… they’re meant to be extinct, anyway.”</p><p>“They don’t look so extinct,” says Karga, eyeing the baby. “You’re riding around with one of their children.”</p><p>“None but Gideon has tried to claim him.”</p><p>“If no one does? Your quest is nothing but folly?”</p><p>“Then I’m to raise him as my own,” says Din. “But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m in need of work. We need credits if we’re going to eat when the winter prices haven’t dropped.”</p><p>Karga smirks. Din rolls his eyes beneath the helmet as the man reaches for the bag of folded bounty letters and he leans over to brush the child’s wet hair from his face. Several letters are removed and unfolded, spread out on the table. Din’s eyes run over the scrawled ink.</p><p>“Bounties for recurring thieves. There’s a lord’s son who made off with money before fleeing east. An escaped convict. Take your pi—”</p><p>“Or, partner with me.”</p><p>Upon the second voice, both Din and Karga look up. Cara Dune walks over and drops into the seat beside Karga, who shuffles over, and the kid makes a happy squeak. “Hey, Bean,” she says, grinning, and Din nods to her.</p><p>“Dune.”</p><p>“Mando.”</p><p>They smile.</p><p>“Is this job too much for you, Lady Dune?” says Karga, a smirk in his voice, only to receive a sharp elbow in response. He groans. Cara rolls her eyes and turns back to Din. She looks much the same as always, with dark armor that has a feminine touch to it. Her hair is braided back on one side, her Rebellion ink plenty visible.</p><p>“I have a bounty to the east,” she says, taking on a conspiratorial smile. “A man who’s a bit of a recluse. Others have tried to go for him so he’s been alert to the situation. He keeps armed guards around his manor at all times with too much efficiency at changing, so snatching him there has been a no-go.”</p><p>Din nods. “What’s he wanted for?”</p><p>“He ordered a lord’s young children to be put to the sword for playing on his land,” says Karga. “Not an Imp, but a real sympathizer. Enough influence let him escape consequences. The client would like the quarry alive, but has said that if something happens in between… he wouldn’t hold it against the Guild.”</p><p>“The offer is 10,000 credits.” Din’s gaze snaps back to Cara and she grins. “It splits even. Give me the help and you get a solid half.” She sucks in a breath. “Possibly, even more. If you’re interested.”</p><p>“I’m… interested,” Din says, and he draws the child close to him. “How do you mean, even more? And if you’re planning to siege his manor with just the two of us, it really wouldn’t—”</p><p>“No siege. I wouldn’t bet on those chances.” Cara shifts. “But I’ve heard the man is a real sucker for <em> tournaments. </em>He loves the action, both of sword fights and jousts. He’ll leave the manor to attend. An entire armed troop with him, but with significantly less protection than that house. He’s attended a few in the last several months, and with no incidents, he’s likely to be confident he’s safe.”</p><p>“So we’re going to a tournament and <em> hoping </em> he shows up to this one?” asks Din. “Is that — hush, <em> ad’ika. </em>Is that a solid assumption to make?”</p><p>Cara watches him with a smirk, then glances at Karga with a mischievous expression and Din narrows his eyes. “What?” he demands. “What’s funny?”</p><p>“I think I know exactly what would draw anyone to a <em> particular </em>tournament,” says Karga, his voice whimsical and teasing, and Din scowls. “A seasoned fighter, coming from a people renowned for their skill in battle…”</p><p>“Distinct armor, surely a favorite to win before he’s even drawn the sword—” continues Cara in a dramatic drawl.</p><p>“You want me to <em> compete?” </em>Din huffs. “I’m not… your shiny bait.”</p><p>Cara makes a disagreeing <em> hum. </em> “You’re shiny, and you’re the best bait we could have,” she says. “Think of it, Mando. You could compete in every event and come out in the top few, if not win it all. There’s a tourney in Broest in a few weeks, near my mark’s location. You retain his attention, and I slip through that guard formation to snatch the asset. Put on a show. Have some <em> glory.” </em></p><p>“I don’t want glory,” says Din.</p><p>“I’m sure you could walk away with the prize as well as a few admirers,” says Karga with a smirk.</p><p>“You both are terrible at providing incentives.”</p><p>“Mando, <em> 5,000 credits. </em> Plus whatever prize money you might win in the process. You and this kid will be set for months.” Cara’s gaze is a little more insistent now, urging him to consider. “If we went now, we could be in Broest a few weeks before the tournament starts and get comfortable with the plan.” Cara pauses. “Unless you <em> want </em>to be chasing after thieves for a quarter of it.”</p><p>Din looks at her. It’s undeniably an attractive offer. That many credits… and then some. Without a doubt, it would set them up for a long time, and ease a significant amount of the burden. He looks down at the child and thinks of how often they’ve gone to bed without food. “Someone would have to watch him,” he mutters.</p><p>Cara brightens. “I have a friend,” she says. “She works with children, she’ll be in Broest. Not a problem.” She stands. “Meet me outside here at dawn in two days. You and the kid need to rest. Then, we’ll head off.” With that, she gives the kid a wave and sets off towards the door.</p><p>Din watches her go, then turns back to Karga. The magistrate has a self-satisfied smile, and Din grumbles as he gathers up the child. “This is a good way to get me killed,” he says. Karga only shrugs and Din rolls his eyes as he gets up.</p><p>“Bye-bye,” the baby says over Din’s shoulder, waving to Karga as they go.</p><p> </p><p>Getting off the road and staying in a town or city is a coveted moment to refresh. After both have bathed and changed into dry clothing, they are too exhausted to do much else. Din piles his armor together with neat care, and when they lie on the single-person bed, the child snuggles in at his side.</p><p>Din drags the blanket up around the boy and presses a soft kiss to his head, holding him close.</p><p>For this moment, they get to rest.</p><p> </p><p>After two days, they meet with Cara. The sun is just beginning to rise and Cara stands outside the common house with her own prepared mare, her hood drawn up as the skies drizzle. Din and the child approach with Crest, both blinking sleep from their eyes and walking slow — the child has a pout fixed to his expression. “You’re late,” she tells them, and Din looks down at the child.</p><p>“I have a toddler,” he says. “Who didn’t want to get up.”</p><p>“Oh, of course.” Cara crouches down to be on the child’s level, giving him a smile. “I didn’t want to get up either, buddy. But we’ll have horses to go fast.”</p><p>The child looks at Cara, pout still unfixable, and instead tugs at Din’s trousers. “Papa,” he says. “No whore. No whore.”</p><p>Dread stabs through Din like a dagger. “Horse!” he says, “He means horse—” but it’s too late and Cara is already doubled over with laughter. Din lets out a sigh, then bends down to the child’s level. “You <em> have </em>to say the ‘s’, kid,” he says, but the child is far more focused on Cara’s reaction, his first smile of the day coming through.</p><p>“No whore,” he repeats, and Cara snorts.</p><p>“By the <em> Maker, </em> Mando, what are you <em> teaching—” </em>but she can’t finish, wiping tears from her eyes. The kid giggles at it all and Din just huffs.</p><p>“I’m not teaching him that,” he snaps, “stop encouraging him!”</p><p>“Okay, okay.” Cara takes a deep breath even as her smile can’t go away, and Din grumbles. “Let’s go, kid. You want to ride with me?”</p><p>The boy lights up.</p><p>They begin on the road to Broest. They’ll continue on the High Road for two days and then several more after branching off towards the east. Broest is a city of the core, highly populated and as close to the capital as Din would dare go. They’re on one of the many main roads that snake through the country, linking the towns and cities together where weeks of travel spread them apart. One day, they’ll have to stop and settle in a town, just for a little bit. The kid has learned to hate travel with a passion, quick to become saddle sore and bored. Cara, though, seems to entertain him well enough, teaching him new songs heard from taverns and inns. Din makes a face beneath the helmet at each vulgar word spewed in the songs, but the kid only tries to hum along, the happiest he’s been on a horse for months.</p><p>Once the light is gone, they make camp. His knee doesn’t ache so bad — it isn’t torturous. They set up a few lanterns, tie the horses to trees, and begin a fire to cook. They work in a silent tandem, simply handing each other things or whistling for it, only muttering about who should keep an eye on the kid. He’s prone to exploring, now that walking has become a solidified skill, but he’s sleepy-eyed and toddling after Din rather than making any attempt at escaping to explore the dark. In the distance, a wolf howls, and the kid whimpers as he grabs onto Din’s cape.</p><p>“We’re safe,” Din assures him, running a gloved hand over the kid’s messy dark curls.</p><p>After a venison dinner, he claims their first watch, and Cara doesn’t fight him on it, quick to lie down on her bedroll and turn away for precious sleep. It gives him the freedom to remove his helmet, his gloves, to wipe the sweat from his face and really breathe. “Papa,” the kid mumbles, snuggling down against his side, and Din draws the little one in close.</p><p>The kid feels… content. Din is never sure what is an intuition for his son’s moods or the child’s <em> abilities </em> coming into play. Din just lets out a breath and lets his body relax, running his fingers through the child’s hair to gently work out knots until the boy grumbles at him to stop. A small face burrows into the softness of the white wolf fur around Din’s shoulders, curled up close for warmth. “Are you okay?” asks Din. <em> “Jate?” </em></p><p><em> “Jate,” </em>the boy whispers, a poor butchering of the word, but he nods against Din.</p><p>“Good.” Din rubs his back, watching the flames of the fire. There’s another howl in the distance, and the little one tenses up, relaxing only as Din presses more firmly on his back. “They’re not here. We’re okay.” His other hand drops to his sword’s pommel, eyes drifting to his bow and quiver still resting on their horse’s side. “I’m here.”</p><p>A cold breeze blows past, and he settles in for his watch.</p><p> </p><p>When Broest’s walls come into view, both hunters are absolutely relieved.</p><p>The day has dawned warm and sunny, with the occasional cold breeze. They’ve made it the miles from Nevarro to Broest in decent time on the road, having only encountered other caravans heading for the city for the tournament as well. But for all the smoothness of the travel itself, the child with them has not had any desire to alleviate the situation, instead free to voice his displeasure with cries and wails.</p><p>“What’s your business?”</p><p>The guard beside the gate eyes them with suspicion, gaze lingering on the beskar armor. Din tries to pay attention to it all while he also consoles the miserable boy in his arms, but Cara spearheads the conversation with all the confidence she can muster — and Din is almost envious of her poise. Sometimes, when she wants, she can seem more a highborn lady than a seasoned soldier. “We’ve come for the senators’ tournament,” she says. “The Mandalorian here will be competing.”</p><p>Din sets his jaw as the child sniffles against him. The guards each eye him, but the two younger ones appear more starstruck. “A Mandalorian?” one whispers, receiving an elbow to the side from his superior.</p><p>“On your way,” he grunts.</p><p>Once they’ve passed through, the sights of the large city draw the boy’s attention, and he forgets his tantrum to look around at it all. Din draws Crest up beside Cara’s mount, letting out a huff. “Senators’ tournament?” he demands. “What kind of <em> attention </em>am I supposed to be getting?”</p><p>“Attention that others would crave.” Cara looks at him. “They’re funding the prize money.”</p><p>“Which senators would be okay with seeing a Mandalorian champion over their own men?” Din huffs. “None. This is… this is dangerous, Cara.”</p><p>“You’re paranoid.”</p><p>“Isn’t this going to hurt you, too? What kind of guards will be between you and this target?”</p><p>“Only his own men. Trust me, no senator would waste their guard detail on an Imp sympathizer like him. All you need to worry about is staying in the tournament long enough for me to have time.”</p><p>Din frowns and adjusts the boy in his arms, keeping him close. “Fine, then,” he mutters. “If I’m doing this, you’ll have to help me practice.”</p><p>“Sounds fine.”</p><p>Broest is a large city made of simple yet elegant build, with well-labeled streets guiding to the different establishments. They don’t make an attempt to walk it yet, spurred towards the nearest quality inn by the cold whimpers of the child. They take a room with two separate beds, and with a few more credits thrown in, they receive a child-sized one for the boy. Din isn’t confident that he won’t roll out of it, but it slides up against Din’s bed and leaves him a short fall if he does roll.</p><p>“Any <em> more </em>information you aren’t telling me?” asks Din as he tucks the child in, rosy pale cheeks already warming up to his usual color. “Or anything that’s changed? What are we doing about him when I’m fighting and you’re trying to get this target?”</p><p>“I have that friend,” says Cara. “Don’t worry. We grew up together, I’d trust her with my life.”</p><p>“That isn’t a cause for confidence in <em> me,” </em>says Din. “She’s Alderaanian?”</p><p>Cara nods, arms reached back to redo the braid in her hair, drawing it all back again. “We stayed in contact through the rebellion and after,” she says, turned towards the dirty mirror sitting above the dead hearth. “She adores children. She’ll take good care of him while we’re busy.”</p><p>“I know,” says Cara in a soft voice, and she ties the braid back before offering her hands to him in a surrendering gesture. “It isn’t ideal for you, I <em> know. </em>But she’s trustworthy. She can stay elsewhere in the crowd. We’ll have it all sorted out before the tournament even begins.”</p><p>Din lets out a breath. “I don’t like this,” he mutters. “I don’t like any of this.”</p><p>“It will all be fine,” promises Cara, and she gives his arm a bump as she steps past him to get to her satchel. “Trust me.”</p><p>
  <em> Good? </em>
</p><p>He stops and looks down at the child before crouching down beside him. He nods as he brushes a thumb across the boy’s cheek, muttering “Okay” to them both beneath his breath.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t joust,” says Din, out of breath.</p><p>Their swords clash once again, both circling each other in the inn’s back street where they’re only interrupted by the occasional passing merchant’s chart or guard patrol. He and Cara are a well-matched pair, both preferring swords on the lighter end that they can control better, neither relying on a massive greatsword or a tiny foil. They’re panting, sweating, always at a match.</p><p>“You do now,” says Cara, and she gives him a grin before swinging in again. He deflects it with a <em> ring </em>of the sliding metal. His knee aches, but he moves well.</p><p>“I can shoot and swordfight, I’ve never <em> jousted </em> before. Why not put me in archery and the melee and leave it at that? I won’t <em> win </em>jousting.”</p><p>“Winning is the most profitable outcome, not the one I need,” says Cara, and they both pause, lowering their swords as they catch their breath. “... I know you could sweep them all in archery. But archery is <em> boring. </em>It takes time and people will look away.” She smiles. “Sword fighting? Jousting? There’s betting, drinking, they forget themselves in their excitement. Everyone’s eyes will be locked on you. Far more anticipation for each pass than waiting for the string to fire. We need to get you a tabard.”</p><p>“I could die,” says Din. “An accident in the fight or a lance to the throat and — people <em> die </em>in these things.”</p><p>“When has death ever stopped you before?”</p><p>Din frowns and looks towards the kid. He’s sitting by the inn’s wall, blowing raspberries as he plays with an old stuffed dog toy. “I’ve never exactly <em> welcomed </em>it,” he says.</p><p>“Chin up.” Cara twirls her sword in her hand, pointing it up towards Din with a smile. “None of these ones will have a full beskar suit. You’ll make short work of ‘em in the melee and they’ll be lucky to unhorse you even once in the joust.”</p><p>Though anxiety still runs in his blood, he’s a Mandalorian. He pushes it aside and melts into the familiar routine of the drills, blocking Cara’s strikes before making the sharp switch into the offense. He focuses on his footwork, his reaction time, on keeping it all together as he watches Cara’s body language. His blade is of beskar, slow to dull, and he’s grown careful with its razor edge but it still brings an end to their match when he lands a slice against Cara’s hand, splitting her glove for blood to dribble out instead. She winces, looking down at it, and Din freezes.</p><p>“My fault,” he mutters.</p><p>“It’s small.” Cara shrugs and sheathes her sword, pressing her palm over the cut. “I have bandages.” As she heads inside, Din collects the little one before following, feeling the sweat begin to dry beneath his clothes. The boy has a concerned look on his face and they walk into their rented room, where Cara is already pulling out a roll of bandages.</p><p>“Ca-ye,” calls the child, and Din sets him down.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Cara assures him, pulling off the glove. A water pitcher is settled on the dresser and she spills it over the hand to wash away blood before she takes the bandages. She sits on the edge of her bed and the child toddles over to her before climbing up.</p><p>“Ca-ye,” he repeats, sounding distressed as he reaches for her hand.</p><p>“Kid—” But Cara stops when the boy gets a hold on her fingers with a tight grip and closes his eyes. She stares down at the cut, expression both confused and concerned as at first, nothing seems to happen. The blood ceases to drip and instead the wound seems to close before the skin is repaired, knitting itself back together until there’s no scar, no sign of any injury at all but for the blood remaining on top of healed skin. </p><p>“... <em> That’s </em> what it feels like,” she whispers.</p><p>The toddler opens his eyes, looking sleepy once again. He smiles up at her through half-lidded eyes and leans against her. Din watches in silence, frowning to himself, before he settles down on his own bed and takes off his gloves. He’s long since come to terms with many of the child’s apparent abilities, even as he has no understanding of them. But the healing takes its toll—that much is obvious. He’s too quick to heal as he pleases, many of Din’s minor injuries healed when he wakes up to a tired child. “He needs a nap,” he says, but the child seems to be several steps ahead as his eyes are shut and he’s relaxed where he spreads across Cara’s lap.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and tries to prepare himself for what may lie ahead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Many Mickles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The tournament begins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The two weeks before the tournament go by with ease. They settle in and the child’s mood improves significantly once the stress of travel has been removed, and improves some more when Cara returns from the market with both food and a hand-made soldier figure. The baby makes a happy squeak when he’s gifted it, and Cara puts her hand up before Din can say anything. “He doesn’t have anything and that dog is falling apart,” she says, and Din swallows any protests.</p><p>The city feels thick with excitement. Banners boasting of the tournament are nailed to near every post. The signup lists are finally put up near the keep, and Din waits until the crowd has thinned to write his own name. He signs up for the melee and the joust, taking one of the last few slots, even as his own stomach rolls. He returns straight after.</p><p>Finally the first day arrives. Din wakes late in the morning, exhaustion gripping every bone he has, only to roll over and finds that Cara and the child have long since awoken. Cara sits by the fire, reading a book, as the child plays on the floor with his new doll. Breakfast has been left on the table and Din blinks before sitting up, the bed creaking.</p><p>“Papa!”</p><p>The child toddles to the side of the bed and Din gets up, lifting the boy up onto his hip. He’s wrapped up in a layer of furs, wrapped around him as he wears a long-sleeved tunic beneath. “Did you eat?” he says, and the boy nods as Din comes to the table. He sinks down into the chair, looking at the saved biscuits and drink.</p><p>“Not looking,” calls Cara.</p><p>Din reaches up and unstraps his helmet, lifting it off. The baby smiles and leans forward, putting his hand against Din’s cheek, and Din makes a face that earns a giggle before he takes a biscuit. He bites into it, and the child snuggles down against his chest instead. “Any news of your friend?”</p><p>“She’s meeting us at the range.” Cara leans back and stretches out, careful as always to not catch a glimpse of Din’s face. He takes his time to eat. “You’ll like her. The kid will, at least.”</p><p>“I’m trusting you.”</p><p>“Why would you not?”</p><p>Din finishes the biscuits and slips his helmet back on, replacing the strap. “I don’t know,” he says with a slight smile. He gets up, placing the child on his feet on the floor, and reaches for his cloak.</p><p>When both are awake and ready, they begin walking towards the archery range. The crowds stream out through the city gates and as they step out of the inn, they join in, given enough berth at the sight of Din’s armor. Din holds the child on his hip despite distraught protests. They make their way out of the gates and into the rolling fields that surround Broest. Beyond the wall, there are large white tents topped with waving flags, bordering the wooden fences of the archery range. Here, they can break apart from the crowd a little more for breathing room, and Din puts the boy down to walk.</p><p>The sun is shining and the skies are blue with a few drifting clouds. The grass has begun to come back to life and the day is picturesque, even with the occasional biting wind, and they come to the fence of the range to watch. The senators and their tents are lining one side of the field, allowed to stretch out in beautiful tents that block the wind and provide shade, no doubt with servants to bring rich confections. At the other side is the competitors’ tent for preparation. The rest of the spectators gather at the fences, and Din allows the child to stand on the post, holding him in place.</p><p>“I’m going to look for Bryna,” says Cara. “Stay here.”</p><p>Din nods and adjusts his hold on the boy. “Papa?” questions the child. “Ca-ye?”</p><p>“She’s going to find someone.”</p><p>“Wh… Who?”</p><p>“One of her friends.”</p><p>“F… Fren…”</p><p>“Friends.”</p><p>The boy nods and leans forward on the fence. Din grips him with one arm around his waist. While people have the tendency to leave him room in public, the crowd still feels constricting around him. It continues to grow, more and more people coming to watch the festivities, and as the wind blows it carries the voice of a man calling out bets.</p><p>
  <em> Twenty on Pavell. Forty-two on Laman. Fifty on the Mandalorian. </em>
</p><p>Din stops and turns his head. <em> Mandalorian. </em>But he can’t find a source for the voice and before he can look, the child begins to climb down. “Papa,” he whimpers. “Papa—”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>The baby looks around, freezing, then starts to climb down again. <em> “Papa,” </em> he whimpers, and Din holds onto him to help him down. The child makes it to the ground and then throws his arms around Din’s leg, holding onto him. Din sets a hand on his back. <em> Overwhelmed. </em>It’s a common feeling for the child, and Din bends down to a knee in front of him.</p><p>“Look at me,” he says, gentle in taking the boy’s face into his hands. The boy stares up at him. “Just me. Good.” He smooths the boy’s curls back. “Do you want to leave?”</p><p>The child swallows.</p><p>“Walk?”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>Din lifts him up into his arms, then walks through the crowd, sidestepping between the people. They make room for him. People fill in the space they’ve left and the child buries his face in Din’s neck, holding on tight. Once they have broken free of the crowd, it feels cooler and better for Din as well, walking into the open air. A few trees rustle, and Din walks over towards one where he sets the child down. The boy sniffles and as Din sits down, he sits, too. He reaches out to take the child’s hands, running his thumbs over the backs. “Better?”</p><p>The child nods.</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p><em> Too much. </em>There’s a pause. The feelings begin to transfer over, and Din sucks in a breath as he feels the overstimulation. The pressing in of a crowd with too much noise happening all around. He feels it himself, but often forgets that the child senses much more than he does, and is too young to cope on his own. “Do you want a hug?” asks Din, and he widens his arms in a gesture.</p><p>The boy looks at him, then shakes his head.</p><p>“Alright.” Din lets go of the boy’s hands and grabs his waterskin, holding it out. The baby takes it and tries to sip, water running over his chin, and Din leans in to wipe it away before the wind can blow again. “Better?”</p><p>The baby nods, then sniffles and crawls towards Din. Din gathers him into his arms, letting the little one curl into his lap, and just holds him with their heads leaned together. The child buries his face in Din’s shoulder and they sit there until a voice calls out.</p><p>“Mando!”</p><p>He looks up. Cara strides over towards them, a woman following. She has light brown hair that ties up in a bun and a simple but elegant blue dress, her skin pale and cheeks red from the wind. They walk over and Din looks up, still clutching the child, who looks up at Cara. “You disappeared,” says Cara.</p><p>“He needed a break,” says Din.</p><p>Cara’s expression melts into understanding and she nods. “This is Bryna Cavare,” she says. Bryna waves with a smile and Din nods. “Bryna, this is Mando.”</p><p>Bryna offers a curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she says.</p><p>Din hesitates and glances down at the child. “Pleasure is mine,” he says, “I’m no knight.”</p><p>“You didn’t mention he was one of the Mandalorians competing!” says Bryna, but her tone isn’t one of contempt that would usually follow those words. Instead she comes to her knees and sits, hands folded in her lap. She looks at the boy with a smile, already appearing enchanted.</p><p>“One of?” Din looks at Cara. “I’m the only one.”</p><p>Bryna frowns, then, and looks at Cara as well for a moment. She shakes her head. “I was… sure I heard of another,” she says. “At the Gaineswell Tavern this morning, I heard men talking of the Mandalorians who had signed up.” She winces. “They weren’t exactly kind.”</p><p>“They never are,” says Din.</p><p>“Whoever this other Mandalorian is, you’ll simply have to beat them,” says Cara, arms crossed and smile confident. “Or, you may not even—“</p><p>“There,” says Bryna, just as cheers begin to rise from the crowd. She’s twisted around to look at the competitors’ tent and Din and Cara look as well. The archers are walking out from the tent, but are only visible for a moment before they’re hidden behind the crowd. “Well, now — he was big.”</p><p>Din feels his stomach turn. “What color was his armor?” he asks, voice gone soft. “How… big?”</p><p>“Well… blue?” says Bryna. “I didn’t quite see.”</p><p>“Take him,” Din mutters.</p><p>Bryna looks surprised but takes the child from Din. The boy stirs from his near-nap and lets out a whimper, <em> “Papa?” </em>but Din is on his feet and walking. Bryna is gentle in shushing him as Cara calls for Din and he ignores both, heading back into the crowd. His heart pounds in his ears. His stomach feels tight. He pushes his way through the crowd, earning grumbles and hissed insults, but they slide off his armor like rain. He reaches the fence and grabs on, looking out.</p><p>The archers are a large group at first, slowly dividing into two groups that will take their shots every other round. Din’s eyes search the group. As the first set of competitors take their places, standing just fifteen paces from their targets with bows in hand, it becomes clear. Din feels the air leave his lungs.</p><p>Paz Viszla stands tall amongst the archers, tall and broad and covered in blue armor. His tabard is black with a white mythosaur skull. Din’s fingers dig into the post and Paz glances towards the crowd. For a moment, their gazes meet.</p><p> </p><p>Squires run across the range, refilling the barrels of arrows as the archers go through them. <em> Thwap. </em>The strings creak and arrows fly, landing in their targets with a satisfying sound or sailing far to land in the dirt. Din feels his hands flex at his sides. He itches to have a bow of his own, to practice his own aim.</p><p>Beside him, Bryna holds the child on her hip. Despite earlier, he has taken a fast liking to her, head resting against her chest as he sucks on his fingers, snuggled close. He reaches out a hand to Din and Din takes it, giving a gentle squeeze to reassure him, and all is well. But his own stomach turns as he watches. More and more archers are dropping out but Paz remains consistently near perfect. With every shot, he hits dead center. He doesn’t have to spend as much time aiming.</p><p>He’s Mandalorian. Din remembers the pain of forming calluses, not allowed gloves until he had them — even at the cost of bleeding fingers. The hours of trying to hit center consistently so he could earn dinner. Where no achievement ever seemed to be enough — once he excelled at one thing, they moved on to the next. Learning to shoot in a close range fight. Getting on the back of a horse.</p><p>“He’ll win,” says Din beneath his breath. Bryna looks over. “He’ll sweep them.”</p><p>“Why don’t you compete as well?” asks Bryna.</p><p>“Don’t need to,” he says, and feels the child reach out with feelings of <em> warm, comfort, okay. </em> Din tries to reflect it back, even as he doesn’t really feel those things. It’s reassuring to see that he isn’t the only survivor, that there were others who <em> did </em>escape the slaughter. But he has found no one else in the months that have passed and Paz may not be so delighted to see him. He still has nightmares of the moment he’d returned to his home for safety only to find that he’d left so much destruction behind.</p><p>Once, Paz had held a dagger to his throat, inches from slicing through a vein, stopped in his anger only by the commands of their <em> alor. </em>But now it may only be numbers that stop Paz from killing him — or whatever honor Din may have left.</p><p>“You know each other?” asks Bryna.</p><p>“We grew up together.”</p><p>Archery had been the one skill where Din flourished and boys like Paz didn’t. They were about the physical strength where Din was able to hit a pinecone out of a tree. Then, he’d grown. He could hold his own against the larger boys like Paz. He’d toughened.</p><p>Bowstrings release with a resonating <em> thwap. </em> Paz’s arrow hits first, another perfect shot, and the rest follow. Din tightens his jaw. He <em> isn’t </em> jealous. He <em> doesn’t </em>want to be out there, proving himself to be on the same footing. His childhood had always been a competition — it was just how Mandalorians were. But he hears the crowd react to every perfect arrow, the mutterings around them, and again feels that urge to prove himself.</p><p>
  <em> Save it for tomorrow. </em>
</p><p>He lets out a breath and shoves those feelings down.</p><p>“You were raised as warriors, correct?” asks Bryna. “Will you raise him to be the same?”</p><p>Din looks over at the child who grows sleepy, eyes barely able to continue blinking. “He is not of my blood,” he says, “and I have not been able to… truly adopt him by my people’s ways. I must look for <em> his </em>kind first. But if I cannot find them, then yes, I’m to raise him in our ways.”</p><p><em> “His </em>kind,” she says, but brushes it off. “That sounds difficult.”</p><p>“This is the Way.”</p><p>The archers grow increasingly impressive as the weak ones are weeded out. Paz remains strong and consistent, unwavering, and the child has fallen asleep in Bryna’s hold. Paz makes it to the final few. Most of the beaten marksmen line the interior of the fences, watching, and the arena is loud as the archers take their final spots. Paz looks out of place among the other two, large and covered in thick armor while they’re smaller and wearing almost no armor at all but for leather. Taunts and cheers are thrown out as they reload their arrows.</p><p>Din swallows. “Come on,” he mutters.</p><p>The first archer raises his bow and draws back, silencing the crowd all at once. He holds it, making the miniscule adjustments, before he lets loose. The arrow flies straight, but Din can see that it’s just a little off center. He takes in a breath as the archer’s posture drops with irritation. The second archer draws back, and this time he takes longer to aim before he releases the string, and this time his arrow <em> thunks </em>against the target. He’s off by inches.</p><p>As Paz draws back, Din holds his breath, fingers digging deeper into the wooden post. The entire field is silent. Getting as close as the other two have is still impressive — they’re over a hundred paces away now, a far target. But for Mandalorians… Din wonders if he’s envisioning the target or the Imps that burnt their sanctuary and killed every <em> Mando’ad </em>they could get their hands on.</p><p>The arrowhead sinks into the red center, and the crowd cheers for a Mandalorian.</p><p> </p><p>Following the archery, there’s a sort of not-festival set up in the fields. There’s tables upon tables of food and drink, performers for entertainment, and games to play. The setup all occurs outside the shooting range, but the gates are opened, and both children and teenagers are quick to grab up bows and try shooting for themselves. Most struggle to pull the string at all. Others can’t hit the targets. Din watches as the child wanders the immediate area, humming one of Cara’s ill-worded songs as he pulls up flowers and grass.</p><p>“Hey,” Din scolds. “No eating it.”</p><p>The baby stares at him, a wad of grass in his mouth.</p><p>“Spit.”</p><p>The kid leans over and lets the grass fall out.</p><p>Din sighs, but his distraction comes from Bryna, who walks over to them with a cup in hand. “I know you can’t take your helmet off,” she says, holding it out to him, “but I thought you might want some ale.”</p><p>“Thank you,” says Din, taking it.</p><p>“Oh, look at you.” She crouches down beside the kid and wipes some of the spit-laden grass from his chin. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Could you take him to get food?”</p><p>“Of course.” Bryna manages to get a few more blades of grass out of his mouth before scooping the child up into her arms. The boy grins at her, lifting his arms up to her and snuggling in when he’s held. “Let’s get you something real to eat, hm? Something real <em> good…” </em></p><p>They walk away towards the tents and Din watches them go. “Papa! Bye-bye!” the kid calls to him with a wave, and Din waves back. Then he turns in Bryna’s arms and Din watches until they’re blended into the crowd. He lets out a tired sigh, then looks down at the cup of ale in his hand. He reaches up, tilting the helmet up a few inches so he can sip it. Most of the kids have abandoned the range, and he finishes off the ale before he gets up and starts towards the rack of standard recurve bows. He fiddles with the strings until he finds one close enough to his own, then grabs up a quiver and fills it with arrows, and walks towards a target.</p><p>He hooks the quiver to his belt and weighs the bow in his hand. He stands about fifty paces away, a decent distance, and readies an arrow on the string. In a fluid motion, he raises the bow and draws the string back to his cheek. He’s learned to adjust for the helmet’s effect on his vision, learned to adjust for everything in his life. He takes a breath, relaxing, careful to position properly. He isn’t fighting for his life here. He releases, letting the string roll off his gloved fingers.</p><p>The arrow sinks into the target, close but off center.</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>He draws a second arrow, rolling his shoulders before drawing back again. He shifts his stance, lowering just a little. New bows could be difficult to adjust to. He doesn’t miss with his own. He takes a breath, certain he’s there—</p><p>“Slipping now?”</p><p>He whips around, drop stepping back and lifting the bow. The string creaks as he pulls back further, aiming at the sound. Paz watches him, leaning against the fence, arms crossed before he starts over.</p><p><em> “Al’verde,” </em>he says, and lowers the bow, the only thing he can think of to say.</p><p>“I expected better.”</p><p>They stand a few paces apart. Paz looms over him like always, built massive and intimidating by nature. For a few seconds, they only look at each other. Then Din turns and raises the bow, fingers flexing over the wood. “Congratulations,” he mutters, drawing back.</p><p>“Don’t give me that shit.”</p><p>Din doesn’t respond. He lets the arrow loose, and this time he hits center. While he remains steady, his heart pounds. “What do you want, then?” he demands, turning to look up at Paz. “To kill me?”</p><p>“If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking,” says Paz.</p><p>“Why <em> are </em>we talking?”</p><p>“Is the boy alive?”</p><p>Din looks up at him, paused.</p><p>“Is the boy <em> alive?” </em> repeats Paz, a scowl in his voice. “You hunted him down for the Imps and threw our covert to the troopers to take him back. Tell me he’s at least still <em> breathing, </em>or was it all for nothing?”</p><p>“He’s alive,” snaps Din, stepping to face Paz square on, his stomach locking up. “He’s here, and he’s my <em> foundling. </em>Someone is watching him right now.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Why what?”</p><p>“Why all this trouble for one child?”</p><p>“For a <em> child, </em>it isn’t trouble—“</p><p>“I mean, why the <em> Empire?” </em> demands Paz. “There’s hundreds of children all over the country, orphaned or not. Why <em> this </em>child in exchange for a suit’s worth of beskar? Why did you change your mind?”</p><p>“Paz…” Din lets out a sigh. “It’s a <em> long </em>story.”</p><p>Paz lets out a huff of both amusement and annoyance, as though he could not believe Din would say it at all. “Our tribe is <em> dead, </em> Djarin,” he says. “Our brothers and sisters and children, slaughtered in those tunnels. I can stand to hear the tale of <em> why </em>they had to die.”</p><p>Din stares at him, his stomach turning, before he settles the tip of his bow on the ground. “... Okay,” he says. “The beskar for a pauldron was the first payment… I didn’t know my quarry was a child.”</p><p>He dives into the story, remembering what details he can and shedding the unimportant ones. They stand in the middle of the range through it all as he details everything since their flight from Nevarro — their encounter with Sorgan, a small farming village that had welcomed them for their help, and meeting Cara. Being chased out by hunters down to the south, to Tatooine, where they’d found rest and a wannabe hunter like Toro Calican. How they’d been desperate enough for money to help an old friend free another, only to be betrayed.</p><p>He goes into more detail about their return to Nevarro. It feels owed. He describes the realization that Gideon was the one after the child, their discovery of the piled armor, and the conversation with their matriarch. Paz is silent through it all. He gives a brief description of his fruitless search for any surviving jedi.</p><p>“So why are you <em> here </em>now?”</p><p>“Cara has a target who only leaves a protected manor for tournaments,” he says. “I’m to be the <em> shiny bait </em>that draws eyes away so she can make a move and split the bounty. And win what extra money I can.”</p><p>“What are you competing in?”</p><p>“The melee tomorrow and the joust.”</p><p><em> “Jousting,” </em> repeats Paz. “You <em> joust?” </em></p><p>“No, I’m just—“</p><p>Paz can’t help a laugh. “Djarin—“</p><p>“I’m not — stop! My chance is better at the melee tomorrow of winning anything but in the joust I’m just trying to stay in as long as I can.”</p><p>“You won’t win when I’m competing and I’ve jousted before.”</p><p>Din pauses then. “You’re… <em> hells.” </em></p><p>Paz laughs again, the earlier tension fading already. “I wouldn’t rely on winning first, <em> vod,” </em>he says, but as he catches his breath, there’s a smile in his voice. “But… you need a distraction? Why one Mandalorian when you can have two against each other in the final?”</p><p>Din stares up at him, turning it over in his mind. “I don’t <em> really </em>want you to be the one trying to ram me off my horse,” he says. “... You want part of the money?”</p><p>“That first place prize makes your bounty money seem like a few coins at most,” says Paz. “No, I don’t want it. But you’ll get plenty when you take second.”</p><p>
  <em> “When.” </em>
</p><p>“Where’s Dune?” asks Paz, ignoring his comment. “And I want to meet this boy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds <em> wonderful </em>to me,” says Cara with a grin.</p><p>Din sighs and crosses his arms. “You’ll have three passes to make a fool out of me,” he says.</p><p>“You don’t need <em> me </em>to do that,” says Paz. Din scowls at him.</p><p>They walk through the festivities, most making way for the two Mandalorians with Cara between them. The crowds are still at their height, moving in large groups whilst the senators have their own places of honor on a raised dais. Cara leads them towards where many of the children have begun to play near trees, on the search for Bryna and the toddler.</p><p>“Whatever this <em> rivalry </em>you boys have, I think it helps with my job just getting easier and easier.” Cara gives Din a smile. “I was able to scout out my guy. Only a few guards on him. I think too much trust is placed in the fact that the New Republic guards are there to keep everything smooth, so if you two can hold the attention through that final, I don’t think I’ll need that much effort.”</p><p>“Good,” mutters Din.</p><p>They come out on the other side of the crowd and Din looks around at the groups of children that have formed. Anxiety starts to creep into him every second he doesn’t see the kid, but soon he spots Bryna by a tree, crouching down to the ground. The toddler is beside her, babbling aloud as he digs through the dirt. As they approach, he looks up and shouts. “Papa!”</p><p>He gets up and toddles over. <em> “Ad’ika,” </em>says Din, bending down to heft the boy up into his arms. The boy giggles and cuddles into him, but his eyes turn towards Paz and he quiets, pushing closer against Din.</p><p>“Hi,” he whispers.</p><p>“Hello,” says Paz. The kid continues to stare, then pushes his face against Din’s arm, watching as his hair falls into his eyes. He then turns and looks up at Din with a questioning gaze.</p><p>“He’s nice,” says Din, and he nods towards Paz. “That’s <em> ba’vodu.” </em>He points to his helmet, then Paz’s. </p><p><em> “Bavu,” </em> the kid whispers. He looks at Paz. <em> “Bavu?” </em></p><p>Paz laughs. “Close enough, <em> kadas’ika,” </em>he says, and his armor rustles as he holds his hands out. The child stares at him, nervous and shy, and he looks up to Din for direction. Din nods, and the child makes a sound like a whimper but he reaches out and lets Paz take him.</p><p>He’s promptly tossed in the air.</p><p>Paz catches him again and the child bursts into giggles. “Agin’!” he shouts, and Paz indulges him, earning another round of giggles. Cara, Bryna and Din all smile, watching the boy be tossed until he grabs onto Paz and snuggles close. It’s the fastest Din has ever seen the kid turn affectionate, and he crosses his arms.</p><p>“A strong <em> verd’ika,” </em> says Paz, a smile in his voice. “Destined to be <em> Mando’ad.” </em></p><p>Din feels a warmth in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>That night, the child is put to bed with minor difficulty. Paz carries him back to the inn, but he wakes on the way and insists, stubbornly, that he stay awake. But a sleepy child is a quiet one, so Din doesn’t mind sitting by the fire as the toddler lies back on him, watching the flames whilst they crackle and pop. The wind howls outside, rattling their window panels.</p><p>“How do you know him?”</p><p>Din looks at Cara. Both have been quiet, too, hoping the boy would be lulled to sleep by the fire and the silence. The room is warm and their bellies are full. But little eyes refuse to shut, and their voices are low. “Paz?”</p><p>Cara nods. “Your covert, but… before or after the Purge?”</p><p>Din looks down at the child. “Before,” he says. “Grew up together.” He smiles to himself. “Like brothers, but not always.”</p><p>“How was that?”</p><p>“He was born a Mandalorian. I was not.” He draws in a breath, leaning back on his hands. The memories play out in his head. “Mandalorians… adoption keeps us going. We value children, and this preserves our culture. But children can find methods of cruelness on their own. Those born <em> Mando </em>held themselves above those not. Paz took a… liking to me as a target.”</p><p>“He tortured you.”</p><p>“In a sense.” Din shakes his head and shifts to run a hand through the child’s hair, smoothing it away from his face. The baby makes a mumble and turns over, snuggling his cheek against Din’s sternum. His eyes finally shut. “I was small when I was brought to the Mandalorians. When I grew, thank the gods, I was less… entertaining. He stopped once we were older, and we became friends in time.”</p><p>“Good.” Cara yawns and stretches out. “... I’m going to bed. <em> You </em>don’t stay up long. I need you to win that melee.”</p><p>Din shakes his head as she gets up. “Fetch your quarry and winning will be unimportant.”</p><p>“The <em> money, </em>Mando.”</p><p>He smiles. Cara goes to her bed, and he hears the shuffling as she prepares to sleep. He rubs the child’s back and begins to get up. “Time to sleep,” he says, lifting the child into his arms.</p><p>“Papa,” the boy whines, voice muffled by exhaustion and Din’s shoulder. “No…”</p><p>“You’re falling asleep, <em> cyar’ika.” </em> He stands and walks over to the bed. The child makes another whimper, writhing for only a few seconds until Din crouches down and lays him in his bed. “Shh. <em> Nuhoy. Jate ad…” </em></p><p>As sleep becomes unavoidable, the child curls up, and Din tucks the blanket in around him. “I love you,” says Din, voice quiet and just beneath his breath to keep it between them, and the boy reaches his hand up. Din leans down and touches their foreheads together. <em> “Jate ca.” </em></p><p>The boy’s eyes shut.</p><p>As he drifts off, Din stands and begins to strip off his armor for sleep. As he removes the beskar plates, going through each strap, he looks down into the metal and sees his visor stare back. For a moment, he only looks at the shine, the beskar glittering from the candlelight. He turns and looks back at the child, thoughts running through his mind at a gallop. His search for the <em> jetii </em>has seemed more and more hopeless, and the reality of rearing the child seems more and more likely.</p><p>He thinks of wooden training swords, endless practicing, and that first set of armor. He thinks of what it takes to raise a child with Mandalorian spirit, and imagines putting a young soul on the same lonely path that he himself walks.</p><p>It stirs emotion in his chest even if he cannot decide what it is.</p><p>He leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s hair.</p><p> </p><p>His <em> ba’buir’s </em>lessons went like this.</p><p>Your honor could be compromised in many ways. Many crimes and transgressions stain your integrity like wine stains the tablecloth. But many stains can be cleaned, the material saved and washed and returned with the others. Your clan can guide you back to the light, and these transgressions can be amended.</p><p>But some stains do not come out. Black ink against a white tablecloth cannot be fixed and only thrown away. <em> Dar’manda, </em>she tells him. There is no coming back from the loss of your soul. To compromise his Creed is one of many ways to do this.</p><p>Din lies awake many nights, thinking of these words, and wonders if he has lost his soul. If he can raise this child to be <em> Mando </em>at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a<br/>Alor - chief, boss<br/>Mando'ad - child of Mandalore<br/>Al'verde - commander<br/>Vod - brother<br/>Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter<br/>Ba'vodu - aunt/uncle<br/>Kadas'ika - cub, pup, baby predator<br/>Verd'ika - little soldier<br/>Cyar'ika - sweetheart/darling<br/>Nuhoy - sleep<br/>Jate ad - good boy<br/>Jate ca - good night<br/>Ba'buir - grandmother/grandfather</p><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Soft Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din continues to reflect as he enters the melee.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The morning of the melee is cold and damp, but the rain has already come. Din wakes early to the sound of knocking at the door. The child has migrated into his arms through the night and he is delicate in how he untangles himself, getting up and stumbling to the door. “What?” he grumbles as he pulls it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz stands in the hallway. His bow is gripped in hand and a quiver sits at his hip. “Get Crest,” he says. “We’re going hunting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him. “I’m in the melee today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have time to nap if you must. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In less than an hour, Din finds himself on horseback, galloping through the forest. He follows just behind Paz’s mount, Blitz, and mud flies from beneath their hooves as the trees continue to drip rainwater. They follow the winding path that takes them deeper into the forest and Din looks around, holding the reins with his bow in one hand. Their cloaks fly behind them until they reach a wider portion of the path, slowing to a walk, and Din lets out a breath as he draws an arrow from the quiver at his hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trees are thin,” he says. “A perch wouldn’t be favorable to either of our weights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was not thinking of a perch,” Paz says. He turns his head, examining their terrain as he pulls Blitz’s reins to stop. Both look around in silence, hearing the raindrops and the rustle of small animals through the bushes. Then Paz quickdraws an arrow, the string creaking before he fires into the trees above. There’s a squeak and a large squirrel plummets to the ground, an arrow sticking out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hit through the body,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go for the head and you could save the pelt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s squirrel, Din, you would need several to make anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you have a baby to clothe, you’ll take the time to skin the squirrels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz walks Blitz forward and reaches down to grab the arrow and the impaled squirrel, pulling the body off. He places it in a pouch at his side and wipes the arrow clean. “He’s wearing wolf fur now. You killed one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tracked a lone one up in the north. It was not so difficult to fashion the skin into something for him to wear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve always had survival instincts. The boy is lucky to have you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din feels his face flush and he turns away, gaze shifting to the trees. He nocks an arrow and nudges Crest forward, looking about, and they ride for a few minutes longer. Then, Paz stops, and he whistles. Din stops as well and looks at him, then darts his gaze around. “What?” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz dismounts, keeping his footsteps light, and Din watches as he bends down to grab a rock. It’s small, the shape of his palm, and he tosses it in his hand before his gaze turns up towards the trees. Din sucks in a breath and grabs an arrow. He nocks it and Paz throws the rock up into the trees. There’s shrieking </span>
  <em>
    <span>caws </span>
  </em>
  <span>as a flock of birds scatters through the air, and Din’s aim wavers before he fires a shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The robin hits the ground, the arrow sticking out of it, and Paz chuckles as Din dismounts. “Plan to make a scarf out of those feathers?” he asks, and Din rolls his eyes before he walks over to fetch the bird. He pulls it off the arrow and stuffs it into his pouch, returning the arrow with the others. He takes a moment to look around, but the forest is quiet today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are his powers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks up, then busies himself with nocking another arrow. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said the boy has abilities,” says Paz. “Does he control them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din strolls back to Crest, humming aloud as he re-mounts. “He does,” he says. “He doesn’t… use them often. They’re tiring.” But he thinks of the times that the child </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>used his powers, when he attacked Cara and defended them against </span>
  <em>
    <span>flames </span>
  </em>
  <span>and healed a man on death’s door. He thinks of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’buir’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>stories about the jedi and feels his stomach turn. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The only good jedi is a dead jedi.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz hadn’t reacted poorly when Din said the child had abilities, but he hasn’t seen the extent of the child’s strength at only two years old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does he do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can…” Din gathers up the reins. “He can heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wounds. Injuries. Karga sustained a bite from a prowler when we were on our way to confront the Client, and the poison should have killed him by morning. Cara tried to help, but it was the boy that did it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz stares at him, then looks out towards the trees. “Incredible,” he says, voice soft. “I did not hear of such things from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>jetii.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“My </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’buir </span>
  </em>
  <span>told me they were dangerous. I’d forgotten all about them until the child…” He pauses. “I do not care what powers he does or doesn’t have. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>boy. If I cannot return him to his people, then I will raise him as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mando’ad.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you should,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One’s birth should not be what holds them back from the better things in life,” says Paz, looking at Din. “Mandalorians take in foundlings regardless of where they came from. If that child has the spirit for it, then being born </span>
  <em>
    <span>jetii </span>
  </em>
  <span>should not be more than but a pebble in the road. If you speak the vows, he is your son, and none shall have a say against it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks down at his hands, his heart stirring in his chest. He swallows. “I want to,” he says. “I want to speak the vows. I want the boy to be mine, to be a Mandalorian. Finding the </span>
  <em>
    <span>jetii </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a worthless endeavor. He must be the last of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you must speak the vows in front of your tribe.” Paz watches him. “You must have witnesses to your oath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks at him, then tugs at the bowstring, listening to the wood of the arrow and the bow slide together. “I have had no witnesses,” he says. “I was certain all but the matriarch were dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She and I still live to fight,” says Paz. “There are others to find. My only mission has been to find them again, to see who still lives. To reunite us.” His gaze burns into Din through their helmets. “Come with me. After this tournament, we travel to find our Armorer, find our kinsmen, and you’ll speak your vows to claim the boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him, then at the trees, his heart pumping in his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claim the boy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s all he wants to do, as his own father once did, to take the oath of parenthood over a child not of his blood. It’s a sensation he’s never felt before, not until this child came into his life. He thinks of the endless nights staying awake when the boy was sick and cold, the sacrifices of time and money to feed and clothe him proper, and the fear of what happens to the child if he were ever killed. Din does not fear death but for what it could mean for his son. To have a tribe again, to have that safety net of a community—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he says, and he swallows. He nods his head. “We’ll do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz nods. A rustle of leaves draw their attention and both turn towards the sound. They freeze, watching as a family of deer step into view. There are five of them, two does and two fawns with one buck bringing up the rear. Din holds his breath, then raises his bow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both for the buck,” Paz says beneath his breath. He draws his own arrow back. Din nods. “On three.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes his aim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The melee isn’t just about skill, but one’s stamina. He is not concerned about fighting well, but having the energy to fight well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Din walks towards the competitor’s tent, a nervous energy runs through him. His armor is the same as he has ever worn it, just as reliable as any other situation, whilst others will bulk up their metal. It is polished to be clean and shining, straps tightened and secured, and he wears a white tabard with a black mythosaur embroidered in the center. Perhaps it is that he carries no weapons that he feels so exposed. A dagger of beskar is tucked in his boot, but only for emergencies, and all other weapons must be blunted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would not blunt his own beskar blades for one tournament.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be fine,” Cara assures him, walking on one side of him. Paz flanks him on the other, and Bryna follows just behind with the child on her hip. They form an entourage, much to Din’s embarrassment. “I’ve already heard others trying to strategize on how to possibly beat you, and nothing they’ve said is worth worrying over. They’ll likely go for the weakest first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope we are not underestimating this,” Din mutters. “I cannot stand on the sides and let them hamstring each other whilst I do nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” says Paz dismissively. “It would be dishonorable to you as a Mandalorian. But you have no obligation to be reckless, either. Don’t rush from fight to fight, but breathe in between. Approach if they will not stand against you. Pick your targets wisely, and end it fast. Don’t let yourself be tired from a fight that drags on too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they reach the competitor’s tent, they stop. Din’s hand drops below to his sword but it isn’t there. “Hey,” says Cara, and he looks at her only to receive a punch beneath his pauldron. He hisses. “You have this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs at his arm. “... Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara nods, then turns and begins to walk in the direction heading back. Din watches her, trusting that she’ll know how to handle the boy’s possible distress over the thick crowds. He then looks up towards Paz. “More last minute encouragement?” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz looks at him and his gaze turns towards the child. “They may go for your helmet,” he says. His voice drops lower, quiet. “You know if…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din’s hands turn into fists at his side. “I know,” he says, quiet. He pauses. “... If — you take him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz looks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I question the state of my soul as it is,” he says. “If I truly lose it — it shouldn’t punish the boy as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz is quiet, but he nods. “This is the Way,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is the Way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz claps him on the shoulder and begins to head back. Din feels nerves continue to streak through his veins, and only Bryna remains, the child watching it all with tired eyes. She smiles at him and Din steps up to them, reaching a hand up to cup the child’s cheek. The baby coos. “Papa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be back,” he says, and leans his helmet against the boy’s head. The child reaches up to grab onto his helmet, giggling, and Din is gentle in pulling away. He looks at Bryna, who gives him a soft smile. “He does not like crowds. You may have to walk away with him and hold his hands for calming down. Thank you for watching him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem at all,” she says, and the child grabs onto her again, sticking two fingers in his mouth. “You’ll win. I’m sure of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din feels his face heat up. “... Thank you,” he manages to say, and she gives him another bright smile. He turns away and starts towards the tent, and hears the child’s soft call towards him with Bryna’s gentle shushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s packed. Many of the men are far too busy to notice him, though the rest do stop and stare. Weapons litter the edges of the large tent, offering choices to those without their own personalized blunted tools, including shields, axes, swords, spears, and daggers. He has his preference. His choice in sword has yet to fail him, finding one of his weight and size amongst others. He keeps his dagger at his hip for emergencies, a second hidden in his boot covers, as much as he may not need it. But he does spare a glance towards the stacked shields and drifts towards it. He doesn’t fight with a shield. But then again, he doesn’t often waltz into a battle against forty-nine other people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs a small steel shield and slips it over his beskar vambrace. Just in case. Like the rest of his armor, it has a nice weight, enough to make him feel comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they wait inside the tent, the crowd is loud beyond its fabric walls, unsettling and looming. Heralds cry the names of the contestants, though he doesn’t hear his own. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mando of Concordia, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the only name he’s willing to give to others but sure to catch attention. He isn’t sure what name Paz gave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They aren’t kept waiting long. Din is relieved for it, the tension in the tent growing thicker and thicker with each passing second. But not long after entering the tent, he’s out again, the fighters emerging from the structure into the sunlight. Much like the archery range, the senators and nobility occupy one side while the rest crowd the stands and the edges. The crowd is cheering. The sun reflects off his armor. A harsh, biting wind blows past, and for but a moment he hopes he dressed the boy warm enough today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk out into the dirt arena. Din’s eyes dart all over, searching for Paz and Cara. They’re more noticeable, and they should be with the kid. As the fighters each find themselves a space to start in, he keeps looking, sword drawn and gripped tight in his hand. Eventually, he spots them, heart pounding in his chest in anticipation. Paz and Bryna are gathered at the fence, as close as possible to the action. Cara is out of sight. His son is sitting on Paz’s shoulders, and he waves with a wordless cry that doesn’t reach Din from so far. He can’t hear anything, his heart pounding in his ears, the crowd a silent force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din can’t wave back before the horn blows, a piercing sound that breaks through the silence, and the arena turns into chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks around with his sword gripped between his hands but there is no need to act when no one raises their blade to him. Instead, the men turn and rush against each other, devolving into a discordant mess of shrieking metal and shouts of pain. His looks around, letting his sword swing in an arc, taking it all in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nearest two men are a few feet away, their swords locked at the base as they push on each other. Din takes an easy swipe at the back of the man’s leg, earning a startled cry before he kicks him aside. He cowers back from Din, hands held up in a yield. The second fighter can’t react before Din’s blade comes to his throat, tapping against the top of his breastplate. The two fighters both scowl at him but start towards the edge of the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the next few minutes, it’s almost a comedy. A man will deliver a blow to another, then turn and face Din but spin away again in an instant. He sighs and for a moment just tosses his sword between his hands. It may truly be easier than he thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until he’s slammed from behind, landing in the dirt with a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His sword clatters out of his grip, and his instinct is to reach for his dagger. A weight settles on top of him, blocking access anyway, and a rough blow snaps his head to the side. He throws up his shield arm to block the next punch, then shoves his attacker’s arms away before pushing up to land his own hit. The man is stunned. Din forces him off and they roll, taking the better position. He slams his fist into the man’s jaw, punching again until blood is drawn. There’s a sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch </span>
  </em>
  <span>when a hit lands against his nose, and the man cries out. “Yield!” he spits, and Din gets off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man stumbles off, holding his face, and Din takes a deep breath, glancing down at the blood staining his glove. He gets up to his feet. Already, he feels tired, head feeling strange with the blows he’s taken, knee aching. He looks around. Hears his name. No, not his real name, he hears </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mando, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but his ears are ringing from that hit and he isn’t sure. A man comes at him and he ducks under the swing and grabs on, throws the opponent down. He doesn’t try again, scrambling away. The numbers seem to dwindle as time drags on. Individual fights begin to last longer. Though his arms burn, the adrenaline hasn’t stopped, and Din tangles with another contestant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes out on top. He wins the next and the next, blocking blows until he can fight back, more and more blood staining his cloth before the opponent is limping away. On the outside of the fences, the injured are being tended to, but Din isn’t sure how much time has passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only knows that he’s exhausted, and no one seems to be dropping out anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their fifty drops to forty and then thirty. A few fighters seem to be allied together, forming a circle to take on the rest. Din manages to pull one out of the circle, cornering him away from the others without being piled on, and it turns into his shortest fight when the man yields. Din watches him edge out of the competition and instead turns his attention on the rest. A sort of paranoia starts to burrow into his skin. As the numbers dwindle further, more are starting to look towards Din, then each other, and amongst the shouts and clatters it’s far too loud to hear any whispers of an alliance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirty becomes twenty, and then fifteen. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The tiredness has dug its way into his bones. His legs ache from holding in a ready position, his arms burn from each duel. The fewer opponents there are, the stronger they each are. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fight until you can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As his blade locks with another man’s, sweat has dripped into his eyes and he struggles to blink it away without conceding ground. The lock breaks, he’s slashed against the leg and hisses. He shifts his feet in the dirt and brings his shield up to strike across the man’s face, knocking his helmet off. The man stumbles, and Din slashes against his wrist, forcing his sword to drop. “Yield,” he hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I yield.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din turns in an instant. He takes on two more, his heart pounding, the thrill of battle turned to the pain of pushing through it. One jerks him back by his cape and the other slashes, but he reacts in time. The sun has moved across the sky. The crowd cheers and screams and taunts. He’s drenched with sweat, he can’t blink it out of his eyes. His knee is killing him. He kicks down another, spins to deflect a block coming from his back. Every attempted hit just thumps off his beskar, leaving no scratch though he feels the force.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Guard up. Go again. Again. Keep your footing, Din, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and</span>
  <em>
    <span> your guard, don’t you want to live?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If he focuses, he can still hear his father’s voice. His father had been a good soldier, a good Mandalorian, from a small but proud clan. He had no mercy in the training yard, though still kinder than his training masters had been, and saved parental affection for home. Din adjusts his grip before adjusting his feet, blocking another swing, this time facing down two men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No excuses.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din had been determined to be a good son. To be what his rescuer wanted him to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slashes at another opponent. They just seem to keep coming. The crowd is a dull roar in his ears, ignorant to it all. It takes him a minute to comprehend that they’ve whittled down to three contestants. The fighting hasn’t stopped, it’s… lulled. The three of them stand facing each other, swords lowered, panting for breath. Each have faces hidden behind helmets, but Din can see their eyes. They stare at him, then each other, chests heaving and postures poor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re as exhausted as him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other two share a glance again. The crowd seems to have gone quiet, too, until a voice rings out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Get on with it!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The two nod to each other before they raise their swords and charge in towards Din. He raises his sword, digging in his feet, shield arm braced. It becomes a blur, one he won’t have much memory of, senses flooded with sweat, panting, and the sound and pain of swords connecting with bodies. Dull metal bites into his beskar, shrieking against it as it slides off. It’s instinct now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes later, he still stands, out of breath but on his feet. On the ground are his opponents, one clutching at his bloody face as the other tries crawling away. He’s gasping for breath, his entire body feeling weak, but keeps his feet. He sheathes the sword. The crowd is silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Applause erupts. It’s a deafening sound. He drops the shield, turning to look for his son, and his knee gives out as he collapses to the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get on the horse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din huffs. They stand in a group outside the physicians’ tent, and he favors his better leg as he leans on Cara for support. His arm hangs over her shoulder, her arm around his waist to hold, and he lets his injured leg hang limp with the toe of his boot dug into the grass. Bryna stands a few feet away, holding the child’s hand with a thinly veiled smile. Paz is across from them, Crest’s reins in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says. “I drank a potion. I’ll be fine in a few—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Din, you won’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand </span>
  </em>
  <span>on it,” snaps Cara. “Get on the damn horse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad words!” the baby shouts, bringing his hands up to his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that one is nothing—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din scowls. He’s sore and exhausted, his knee paining him more than it ever has before. He wants a bath, early dinner, and his bed, but without the humiliation of having to ride his horse there. “I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Walk yourself to Crest, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara lets go of him with no warning, stepping out of reach, and Din gasps before he hits the ground. He pushes up on his hands, then is careful to get back up. He stands on one foot, holding his balance, and they stand in silence as they watch him. He takes a deep breath, feeling a cool breeze go past, and just holds himself in place. A few seconds pass. He eases his foot down with no weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara starts towards him, and he throws a hand out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Let me,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says, and Cara rolls her eyes as she steps back. Her gaze turns to Paz, and for a moment they look at each other. Din looks between them, and he sucks in a breath. “Wait,” he says. “Wai— </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Both lunge in at the same time. Cara shoves him towards Paz and Din falls against him, thrown off balance, and he can barely scrabble to find purchase for his hands when he’s hefted into Paz’s arms. “Stop!” he shouts, but goes ignored when he’s carried and thrown up onto Crest’s back. Cara is already grabbing the reins, starting Crest on a walk, and as the horse lurches forward Din has to scramble to find a good hold. He tries to pull himself properly into the saddle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down. There’s soft grass below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets himself fall, landing on his forearms and belly in the tall grass with a harsh </span>
  <em>
    <span>grunt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The shock is rough but he rolls over onto his back, sitting up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Din!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cara groans, stopping the horse. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubborn—“</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>says Din. “So let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can walk,” says Paz. Din stops to look at him, and Cara has her own questioning expression. “If he says he can, then he will, and in good time I’m sure.” He looks down at Din, and even through the helmet, his expression is challenging. “We can wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him. Paz walks over and picks up the child from Bryna’s side. The boy grins at being picked up, and is smiling when Paz sits him in the saddle. But he turns to look at Din and the smile fades. “Papa,” he calls. “Papa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day hangs between late afternoon and early evening, the sun still up yet soon to set. Their party simply stands there, waiting on him, faced between either stubbornly waiting them out to stumble home himself or yielding. They linger for a few minutes. Bryna walks to Cara, and both whisper, occasionally looking towards Din. His face flushes. The kid calls for Din again, but Paz distracts him with hand games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vod,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din groans. He looks towards the warrior. “... Put me on the horse,” he says, his voice fallen quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t hear you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Put me—” he pauses. His voice becomes quieter. “... Help me.” Paz watches him, and he digs his fingers into the earth beneath him. “... Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help you how?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din scowls. “Put me on Crest!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz lets out a laugh and walks over. “Of course,” he says, voice teasing, and he stands over Din. He grabs him beneath his arm, another hand behind his thigh, and all but throws him up onto his shoulder. Din lets out a high-pitched squeak when he lands, all the air forced out of him, and he just groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>ass.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s rather rude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din grumbles. At Crest, Cara has already grabbed the kid out of the saddle, and Din groans when he’s thrown on. He pulls himself into the saddle, bruises all aggravated, and just sits with his legs over one side. He huffs. “Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not the one who needs it,” says Paz. He walks ahead and grabs the reins, urging Crest on. Cara walks over and holds the kid up, and Din takes him, sitting him at the front of the saddle. Cara offers them both a smile, then speeds up to talk to Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It leaves him with the kid, who babbles away at Din with no expectation of a response, and Bryna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your name is Din?” she says, and her voice is so soft and sweet that it almost distracts him from her words. His throat tightens up, and he just stares at her in turn, hit with the realization that Cara had used his name in front of her. His lack of reaction makes her change in an instant. “I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t… I knew Mando couldn’t be your real name but didn’t — you wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>me to know, I—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” he croaks. “It’s… it’s okay. Yes, that’s my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does little to ease her, but despite his discomfort, it still is nice to see that she cares. “I won’t use it,” she promises, still looking embarrassed. “My apologies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk on for a few seconds, only hearing Paz and Cara’s muted conversation as Crest walks along the path. For all his embarrassment of being put on the horse like something delicate, he reaches down and rubs at his knee. He needs a good, hot bath, and needs time to just massage the joint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you hurt there?” asks Bryna, eyes at his knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks down at it, then adjusts his arm around the child. “I have had it for a while,” he says. “That much effort just aggravates it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have something to soothe it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took a potion,” says Din. “A bath and some pressing helps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her expression is hesitant. She rubs at her arms as a sharp breeze blows past, and the child burrows in closer to Din. “Do you have any other methods to ease the pain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks to her. He frowns beneath the helmet, and she swallows. He pulls the boy’s hood up against the wind. “Are you a physician?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says, voice ever quieter. She looks towards the child. “But I know a trick or two. They want to get drinks — but if it pains you too much, and… you need to joust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see,” he says, and she nods as the boy is drawn into his arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cara and Paz </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to get drinks at the tavern up the street, and Din knows he’s holding them back. They, with the addition of Bryna, stick around to help him get settled, and once he’s bathed and sitting on his bed with food accessible, they’re ready to go. “We’ll bring something back,” Cara promises as they go, and Din just nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the door shuts, it leaves them alone in the room. Bryna sits on the floor to entertain the child, looking content to do so. Din watches them. The child is thrilled to have someone new he can show off his toys to, and Din shifts his leg up onto the bed. He rolls up his pant leg, the fabric tight around his thigh muscle, and starts to press his thumbs in at either side. He’s gentle at first, but starts to press deeper, covering either side of the joint. Every muscle has tightened up, leaving him careful to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna casts looks towards him, but does not move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain does not ease. Din grows frustrated. Though the months have passed and the injury has healed since, it still leaves him in pain. He swears beneath his breath. That blow from Gideon still scars, and the child had done enough by then. He can only live with it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hurting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up towards Bryna, who watches him now. He sets his jaw, then looks down at his knee. With reluctance, he nods, and she gets up. She walks to her satchel, a small bag resting over the back of a chair, and both Din and the child watch her. She pulls small jars and a small cloth from it, then fetches the decorative bowl of wildflowers off the table. Din watches, unable to see, as she pries open the corked jars and pours some of the powders in. There’s three different powders, and then one of clear liquid like water. She takes a pestle from her bag and swirls the liquid around the bowl before mashing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” asks Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A therapeutic paste,” she says, not looking at him. “My father was a physician and taught me. It certainly won’t fix your injury, but may… ease the pain, at least for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din furrows his brows but doesn’t question it. The child wanders over, doll in hand, and he lifts the child up into his lap. The boy sits there, fiddling with the toy as he babbles beneath his breath. Din nods along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna returns then, and he shifts further onto the bed to let her sit at its edge. The paste is not the most attractive cream color, but it’s as smooth as cream, and Din tugs his pant leg a little higher. “How long?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few seconds or a few minutes.” She sets the bowl aside and reaches in, getting it on her fingertips. She presses them to his knee, rubbing it in at the side with gentle, soothing touch. He raises his knee a little off the mattress. The child watches with as much interest, two fingers in his mouth. It doesn’t smell fantastic, either, and Din holds the child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She covers it all around the joint, front and back and sides, then takes the cloth and wraps it around. “To keep it from dripping,” she assures him, and he just nods. She holds the cloth there with both hands, falling silent, and Din watches. She looks… concentrated, and Din is about to ask another question when that thought disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That soothing sensation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>healing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>cool and encompassing and gentle, enters beneath his skin. He lets out a breath, then swallows, and the baby coos. It feels as though it swirls around his knee, bringing healing with it, and the pain ebbs away. Once it’s gone, she removes her hands, and looks up at him. He stares at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that better?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile falls a little but turns away to grab the bowl, letting strands of hair cover her face. “If that didn’t — it doesn’t always w… work, quite how I think it—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts to get up, and Din throws out a hand to grab her wrist in a tight grip and pull her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a jedi,” he says, and she stares at him, growing panic in her eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a<br/>Ba'buir - grandparent<br/>Mando'ad - child of Mandalore<br/>Jetii - jedi<br/>Vod - brother</p><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ready to Ride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The joust begins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt you,” he says. Bryna swallows. She pulls at her hand — it’s soft and small compared to his — and he releases her. “But I know what that healing feels like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna shakes her head and walks to her bag. He can see her hands tremble, and she’s quick to cork the jars and shove them back in. “I must go,” she mutters beneath her breath. “I cannot…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child begins to whimper, looking distressed by the emotions of the room. Din sets him on the bed and pushes himself up, darting to the door to step in Bryna’s path. His limp is present, but his knee holds itself together. “Wait,” he says, gripping the handle behind him, and Bryna stops short to stare up at him. “I want to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me go,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would not—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>give you the chance!” she snaps, stepping further back from him, and as frustrated tears spring to her eyes Din stops himself. He stands in place, then just leans back against the door. He takes a breath, calming himself, then lifts a hand and points to the baby who’s looking between them with a distressed expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a jedi,” he says. “He has the same abilities. He can move things around and heal injuries. He’s my </span>
  <em>
    <span>son. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Believe me when I say I would not hurt you for what you can do, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>would not be here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna stares at him, then at the child, and crosses her arms in a tight self hug. Din holds his hands out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Nekaanyc,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says. “I am without weapons or armor other than my helmet. You have nothing yourself. I swear to you, I will not harm you. To do so would violate my honor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps his hands out. Bryna’s eyes search him, full of mistrust, but she looks towards the child again. After a few moments, she begins to relax, and she swallows. “... Alright,” she says. “I’m hardly a jedi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din gestures to the table. She hesitates but walks over to sit in one of the chairs and Din sits in the other, neither quite sitting comfortable in creaking wooden seats. “You can use the Force, though,” he says. “You’re one of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna swallows, her hands fidgeting with her skirt. “I… am,” she says. “My parents always told me never to use them. The jedi were still around when I was a child and they did not want to give me up to them. They discouraged me from ever using any of my abilities, and I was… I was taught to be afraid of them. Afraid of myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns. The boy squirms off the bed and walks over, reaching up for Din, and Din lifts him into his lap, settling the child on his thigh. He snuggles against Din’s side, watching her. “But you heal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My father was our village physician,” she says. “He healed others, and when I realized I could do the same in my </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>way, it felt… like fate.” She shakes her head. “I’ve always wanted to help people. But my father hated it. He told me that healing the way I did, I — I was leaving seeds of evil in those people. He never understood. He said it was not the way of a physician to do harm rather than good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din turns his gaze to the forgotten bowl, then to his own knee. He reaches down and pulls off the cloth, beginning to wipe the mixture off his skin. “You do this, then,” he says. “To hide what you’re doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna blushes and looks away, taking in and letting out a breath. “It’s far better that they believe it’s the work of some wet clay and be </span>
  <em>
    <span>healed </span>
  </em>
  <span>of their pain than to continue to suffer because they fear it — is it not?” She looks at him with pleading eyes and he realizes she wants his agreement. He nods his head. Her gaze turns then to the child in his lap. “I worked with children. I love caring for them. I just… try to teach them the acceptance that I wished I’d had.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods, and it’s a beautifully poetic thought. To live in a world where there was far more acceptance than judgment. But they did not live in such a world, at least not yet, and he sets aside the clay and cloth. “Does Cara know?” he asks. “She said you both grew up together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even Cara,” she says, shaking her head. “She lived within the city. My village was on the outside, still on Alderaanian land, but… separate. Her father sold the same properties my father used for his healing potions, so we often met and played. But the fear of anyone knowing my abilities triumphed even my trust in </span>
  <em>
    <span>her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>as much as she was a sister to me.” She leans her cheek into her palm, watching the boy. “If she would have understood, I — well, I’ll never have known.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was taught to hate the jedi,” says Din. “I was… a war orphan. My village was razed, and the Mandalorians took me in. I was adopted by a clan and raised as a warrior. My </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’buir — </span>
  </em>
  <span>my grandmother, in my clan. She would tell me stories about... evil things in the world. Bedtime stories. Only once, but said I would be lucky to never meet one.” He pauses. “Now, I’m raising one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna begins to smile. “It’s sweet of you to take care of him, even if you were taught that,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mandalorians love children. It’s part of our honor, to protect them from harm.” He pauses, looking down to the child. “... I do what I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s happy,” says Bryna. “I’ve known you a day and I can see he’s happy in your care. You’re his comfort, and many parents that I work for cannot achieve that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din allows himself a smile at that. The child is starting to fall asleep against him, and Din strokes his fingers through his hair. The boy yawns. “Thank you. For watching him through this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my pleasure,” she says, and Din knows that he believes her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning offers respite. Their joust does not begin until most of the day has passed and Din is pleased to sleep in, the child having found his way snuggled beneath his arm rather than in his own bed. Din drifts in and out of sleep, his body sore, and just tugs the baby closer. He dreams of home — not Nevarro, not the covert, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He dreams of his clan when he was a child, how his </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’buire </span>
  </em>
  <span>always had treats and stories for him. How his </span>
  <em>
    <span>bavodu’e </span>
  </em>
  <span>had always been happy to tease him, but were also there when he needed them. His father, and how despite his hard training, he’d made sure Din knew he was loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees his father’s face before his dream is waved away like smoke, and he’s woken instead by the small hands of a child on his shoulder, pushing as hard as he could manage. “Papa! Papa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes. He groans, then reaches out and grabs the kid, pulling him onto his chest. “I’m awake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby giggles, falling on top of him, and Din makes a choked groan when an elbow lands on his throat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ugh.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He sits up and cracks his neck on either side, then holds the boy to his chest. When a throat clears beside him, he looks over. Paz and Cara stand by the door, both dressed and armored, a grin on Cara’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jate kadas’ika,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paz praises, and Din grumbles as he sits up. “We’re getting breakfast. Get dressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drags himself out of bed. The sun shines through the windows, already moved well across the sky, and with almost no limp he retrieves his armor and begins to put it on. He slumps into a chair, strapping it on, as the kid returns to Paz for hugs. The large Mandalorian has always done well with the little ones, and the kid enjoys burying his face in the fur around his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din is not jealous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Bryna coming?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She said maybe.” Cara eyes him with a smirk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“The kid likes her,” Din supplies quickly, and his face heats at the implication of deeper intentions. The kid makes happy coos as he’s placed on Paz’s shoulders, though it requires the Mandalorian bend further to get through the doorway. They begin to walk down the inn’s stairs, shutting their room’s door behind them, and enter the city streets. The day is chilly, but the sun feels hot, and Cara seems to know where they’re going as she leads them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your first competitor is from Naboo,” says Paz. “Mine, Coruscant. They’ll be crowd favorites by their origin alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods and mumbles beneath his breath. The dirt on the cobblestone street crunches beneath his boots. “You and I won two of the events as well, they’ll hate us for that,” he says. “As much as they can hate—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>smack </span>
  </em>
  <span>against his back and he whips around, hand flying to his sword, when he looks down. There’s a sheet of brown paper on the ground, already blowing away in the wind, and on the ground are cut up pieces of rotten fish. The smell is horrific and Din looks at Paz. He was hit as well, higher on his back, fish guts sticking to his cloak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down the road, two man — one younger, one older — laugh. “Bucketheads,” one mutters, whilst the other brandishes a knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have shit for you to pillage here,” he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Go.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din and Paz both ease their grips on their swords, but it’s Cara who steps forward, a scowl on her face. “Willing to back up those words with that toothpick?” she demands, and there’s a high-pitched </span>
  <em>
    <span>sssh </span>
  </em>
  <span>as her sword is drawn. The two men freeze in place, then lift their hands before turning and darting down an alley. She lets out a frustrated groan and re-sheathes it, and Din has already brushed the fish off Paz before it’s done in return to his own cloak. “Bastards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ignore it,” mutters Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They threw fish at you—” Cara stares at him. “They could’ve hit the baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It happens,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara stares at them both with a look of incredulousness. “You…” But Paz just gives the kid over to Din, and the baby has grown uncomfortable with the tension, burying his face in Din’s shoulder. She looks between them. “You just accept it. Without contest? They’re cowards, they fled at the sight of a blade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your </span>
  </em>
  <span>blade,” says Paz. “We cannot draw. To do so otherwise… it only feeds into their assumptions of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We avoid cities for a reason,” says Din. “In a city as big as this — you’d never find anyone who throws something.” He looks towards Paz. “We react in the way they desire, in front of others, and we only make it worse for the next Mandalorian to come through. Enough of this, and they may ban us altogether.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fish doesn’t hurt us,” Paz adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara stares at both of them, an expression of both anger and sadness on her features. She opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t, and when she looks at Din, he shakes his head and adjusts the baby. She grumbles instead. “Ridiculous,” she mutters. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s life,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue to walk. Cara walks ahead, still fuming, but Din and Paz stay side by side. Din watches the child in his arms, quiet where he is, wrapped in his furs against the wind. Their footsteps crunch, there’s faded shouts from the piers, and a few people pass them with stares. Din swallows before he looks to Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you found anyone else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question is enough to drop the temperature from calm to chilled. The child begins to shift now, moving to look between them with confused eyes. “Papa?” he asks, eyes big. Din shushes him, making another adjustment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What… happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s given another bout of silence and the child continues to look bewildered. Din supposes he’s picking up on the emotions between the two, appearing unsure of how to respond to it — he’s too perceptive of these things. He’s almost as certain that Paz won’t answer him at all until he does, voice low and tight as they continue to walk. If Cara is listening, she does not show it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were preparing to leave,” he says. “Everyone was ready. We were taking all we could carry. Planned to head north, where we might have a better chance of finding somewhere secure and hidden. The children were nervous, and heading into the cold, we could only be hopeful these ones would survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din swallows and slips a hand down to touch the child’s back. He remembers the early months of their exile from Mandalore and Concordia, the days spent walking and walking. Hunters sent into the trees and only returned with few squirrels, where a deer was a feast. They’d lost veterans to the cold. Children who didn’t wake up, and the cries of parents at dawn to wake them all with further tragedy. Unborn ones lost before entering their cruel world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silent terror they all had felt when the northern winds blew out their attempts at fires and the flames wouldn’t return. When they had piled their living children in the hollow skull of one of the many wyvern skeletons that litter the north, desperate to block them from the wind and snowfall. Too cold to move. When Din had climbed the trees, determined to get his blood moving </span>
  <em>
    <span>somehow, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ready to find a squirrel’s nest and rip them out if he had to for food. Someone had to feed his clan. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paralyzed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dying. Beskar too cold to touch, more a coffin than protection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds onto his own son for just a moment, warm now, feeling his heartbeat through his back. They could only hold onto hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still could not take them through the north without feeling that same fear, and would hold the child as tightly as he could, unable to sleep without worry that the boy would go cold during the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They came all at once. Flooded the place. It was… chaos. You could not tell what was happening to anyone else, they were so thick.” He pauses. “Our concern was the children. Some were brave — they fought. As well as they could. Mandalorians, through and through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din lets out a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were too many. Kill one, five more would take their place. We killed most. Their numbers had dwindled, but so had ours. They did not care for surrendering, they were executioners. There were bodies everywhere. Some of us escaped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din turns his head to look over at him. “Some?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few. Faran and Baol got out with their foundlings. Varagh and Quain escaped, too, helped me cover that retreat. I hadn’t seen anyone else alive in those tunnels. I was sure we were the last. When you said our Armorer was alive…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re out there?” whispers Din. “Four and foundlings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” says Paz. “Varagh and Quain parted with us. Paranoid about the dangers of Mandalorians traveling together. Faran became separated from us months back. Baol… decided to break her vows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Removed the helmet,” says Paz, and Din’s heart sinks further, thinking of the woman who had once been like a surrogate sister and her two children — his </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’ade.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “I… couldn’t bring myself to condemn her for it. She had the two little ones and what work I could find was not enough for all four of us. Most places were turning us away. It was an easier path, but one to keep her children alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks down at the child again, who has settled back down with a solemn look about him. He looks up at Din, and Din feels guilt creep into his heart. He can’t deny that he’s had similar thoughts. How easy it would be to simply remove the helmet, reforge his armor into a less noticeable if weaker style, and rely on something better than bounty hunting. Something more stable. He could use his own name again without fear, raise his son in a happy life without prejudice. Purchase land, cultivate it, make an honest living. He thinks of the farm village they’d once sought shelter in, the simplicity and peace compared to a brutal life as a bounty hunter and an exiled Mandalorian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But every time, he’s resisted. It was never </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But they may be out there,” he says. “They may all be out there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have been looking,” says Paz. “But I do not know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue to walk along the street. The words hang heavy between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Cara in a sour mood, they reach the establishment for breakfast. They walk in and Bryna is already there, smiling as she waves them over, and under further stares, they approach. Cara and Paz reach the booth first and sit on the same side, and Din takes the last seat beside Bryna, setting the child in his lap. She smiles at him, and he nods in return. After his conversation with Paz, he thinks now of the secret she also harbors, and tries to imagine a world where they did not all carry such burdens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to go somewhere for them to eat,” says Cara.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna nods and as the child climbs from Din’s lap to hers, she wraps her arms around him. He babbles away at her, reaching his hands up to the table. “Are you alright?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara pauses, then glances at Din with a tight jaw. “Just fine,” she says, and Bryna looks to Din with a worried gaze. He shrugs it off, shaking his head, and she just frowns at them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The serving girl who comes by wears a nervous expression, but she seems to relax once knowing they intend to leave with the food. It seems to set Cara into a far worse mood, while Din and Paz do not flinch. Din keeps his own food simple, eggs and bacon with sausage that he can split with the child, while Paz chooses a larger meal for just himself. As they wait for the food, they make idle small talk about yesterday’s competitors. Din grumbles to himself, still feeling every bruise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they receive their food and leave, they walk beyond the city gates to find a quiet place to sit and enjoy the fresh air. Din’s hand lingers on the kid’s head, keeping him close. They find the spot where Din and Paz can sit opposite sides of a tree, facing away, while Cara and Bryna sit side by side nearby to still carry a conversation. Din eases his helmet off, a certain discomfort about it with people so near, but he trusts them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t been able to… trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no doubt you two will do well at the joust,” says Bryna, and Din is jostled out of his thickening thoughts. He and the child both pick through the food. “I would be surprised for anyone to unseat either of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz responds, but Din eats in silence. The baby sits at his knee and eats as well, far messier, and Din has to reach over and wipe egg yolk from his chin before it can drip onto his furs. “Careful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kadas’ika,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says, and the baby nods before repeating the wiping gesture on himself. Din gives his back a rub, then bites into the sausage.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He sits beside his guardian, who looks on him with a kind face. Din eats the breakfast quietly, even as his stomach feels knotted up, even as he can’t quite breathe through the pain in his chest. “You’re doing very well, Din,” his guardian says, and it lightens his mood as much as possible. “I know eating is difficult right now. But you will be one of us, and you will need to be strong.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Din takes another bite of the porridge, swallowing it down, even as it hurts him. The sound of screams still ring in his ears, and though the burning fire nearby keeps him warm, it brings him dark thoughts that do not leave his mind.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If he thinks, he can still hear his neighbors scream as they burned. He can still see his parents’ faces before the arrows hailed down on them. And even the sound of galloping hooves as the Mandalorians arrived did not bring him comfort.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Make ‘im more nervous, why don’t you?” demands Paz, voice a thunderous growl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din turns over his gaze from where he sits on the tree stump, tightening the laces of his boots, and watches Paz and the squire. The young boy is a nervous and fidgeting mess with clear discomfort about his task — just one of many youths being paid a pathetic amount of money to assist those competing. He stands on a step but Blitz is a large stallion and his saddle heavy, almost impossible to maneuver for a child. Near Din, a slightly younger boy saddles Crest with much more ease, tightening the straps beneath her belly. Where Crest is calm, Blitz is aggravated, stepping and pawing to make the job more difficult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just give it here,” Paz snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The squire is more than happy to. He just holds the slipping saddle in place and as soon as Paz has a grip beneath its edge, the boy flees, grabbing his step and hurrying away as fast as he can without running from the fenced area the competitors prepare in. “Not the boy’s fault you’re so terrifying,” says Din. Paz looks over at him. “He might do a better job if you were not to breathe down his neck the whole while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz makes no comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din finishes the ties on his boots and stands, walking over to Crest and running his hand over her coat. His own squire gives him a nervous glance, but does not appear ready to flee as well. He’s young, barely into his adolescence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” says Din. “I can take it from here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy relaxes and nods before getting down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din has to fix the straps to fit proper. He gets his foot into the stirrup and pushes up to mount, slipping his foot into the other to test the length. He doesn’t quite feel… secure. He takes a breath and looks down at the straps. They’re positioned correctly now at the notches. It’s the same length he’s always ridden with. He heels Crest forward into a walk and they go in a tight circle. It’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>same, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but… he’s still left with an unsettled feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I watched you joust,” he says, and Paz looks again. “When we were young. When my training was already done for the day, and the older boys were all jousting for fun. Wesson and I would climb up the back of the haybales, up against the wall of the stables. So no one would see us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz looks at him for a long moment, then nods. “It was good practice for taking a hit and staying saddled,” he says. “You never partook in it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” says Din. “My training master focused more on shooting and dueling from a horse than taking such a hit. I wished to, then, but… I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this should be a dream come true,” says Paz, and he mounts Blitz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns. “Not with the attention,” he mutters, and he shifts in the saddle before he begins to dismount. His boots hit the ground. “The armor draws enough of it wherever we go. To draw it on purpose…” he shakes his head. “I worry about the wrong kind of attention this may bring us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you have anything to worry over,” says Paz, and he does a similar walk around in a circle. He leans down to adjust the stirrup. “The incident this morning is the most they have bravery for. Watch. None will make the attempt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to be here,” says Din. “It just has to follow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then it will be following the three of us, and we will face it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him. He longs, greatly so, for such confidence. But he does not have it. He worries, instead, of what may happen to the child if he fails to protect him. He thinks to the incident before arriving in Nevarro, the vagabond that had attempted to steal from their saddle bags, and the child had not been hurt then but the telepathic link had been Din’s only indication of anything being wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din has had to put them in that same situation, time and time again, ceaseless without rest. He despises himself for leaving the child in potential danger, but it is a relentless battle between watching over him as he should or ensuring that they have something to eat. But now, Paz wishes for them to stay together. It offers the relief he needs. A second pair of eyes to watch over the child so Din can do as he needs. So Din can choose to stay with the boy without starving them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz is right, he tries to reason with himself, he should not be so worried. He loses himself in his thoughts too easily, and he takes hold of the saddle’s edge as a grip so he can ease down into a stretch. There’s a satisfying </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he does it on the other side. He gets back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mando!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both turn to look. Cara and Bryna stand by the fence, the child standing between them with both hands held. “Papa!” the boy shrieks, drawing attention, and Din runs his hand over Crest’s rump before walking over. “Papa—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here,” says Din. He looks at Cara, leaning down to let the boy step forward and take his hand. “Do you know where your target is today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>visible,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>says Cara with a laugh. “His own section in the stands, as close to the senators as one could be. Bryna and I will take the seats nearby and further up so I can watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns, then. “He’ll be close,” he says, gaze turned down to the child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He won’t be anywhere near the man,” says Bryna with a confident voice. “I promise you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din doesn’t feel convinced, but instead of responding he watches as the boy plays with his fingers. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa,” the boy whines, holding his arms up. “Up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” says Din, “I can’t now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this isn’t satisfactory at all to the child and tears appear in his eyes as he whimpers. “Hey!” says Bryna, and she crouches down to the boy’s level, placing her hand on his back. “How about we go find seats so we can watch your papa ride?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It draws the baby’s attention, and he looks at her with a sniffle. But she takes his hand, enclosing it in her own, and he sniffs again before he walks over to grab her in a hug. She embraces him, then picks him up, and he snuggles against her. Din watches with relief before turning to Cara. “Be careful,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the stadium comes a raucous cheer, almost deafening with its proximity, the taunts and shouts and screams of excited spectators. Cara waits with a smirk until it calms. “The utmost care,” she says, and winks at him. “Stay on your horse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that statement, she turns and begins to walk, Bryna and the child at her side. He watches, still worried. His stomach feels unsettled but he returns to Crest, brushing his hand over her again. There is… something </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>here, he’s sure of it, only he cannot be sure what it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz goes first. Din walks to the stadium tunnel to stand and watch as Paz and his competitor trot out into the arena, and the difference between them is near comical. The Coruscanti man wears quality armor, nothing like beskar but Din is impressed nonetheless. Paz makes him appear pathetically small as the two line up their horses to face the senators. They both bow forward on their mounts, and the Coruscanti man removes his helmet while Paz makes no effort to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The announcer speaks, and it’s a faint shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir Hanlin Josk of Coruscant, third of his name. Facing Paz Vizsla of Concordia, first of his name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din leans against the wooden structure of the stadium. Perhaps it was stubborn Vizsla pride that lured Paz into giving his true name — and in a stadium of hundreds. Din chose </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mando </span>
  </em>
  <span>with little care. Hiding his name has become such a habit that anything else feels… revealing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two competitors shake hands and part to their own ends. Blitz is a steady horse, and Paz looks regal and refined on his back. Din had looked up to him once they had moved past their childhood tussles, the older boy always seeming to be the picture of perfect Mandalorian breed, and now it shows. A squire runs to his side with a lance, holding it up to him, and Paz takes it up. Din feels a shared sense of pride — but imagines facing off against him in the final round and feels his stomach twist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din would not mind taking an eventual loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Coruscanti man looks perfectly confident at his end of the post and a man stands in the middle, a red flag hoisted to the sky. The air stands still. The crowd is silent but for the few murmurs Din can hear above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flag whips down and the flagman flees to the side as the horses take off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way is long but the horses swift and quickly, both jousters are hefting up their lances to take aim. It almost seems to take longer than possible, the moment stretching, before their lances find a mark. Paz’s lance splinters into pieces against the knight’s breastplate while the other’s snaps in two off his own cuirass. Paz is forced back by the impact but steadies himself with one hand, and the Coruscanti knight is nearly thrown out of his saddle. He drops his lance and clutches desperately at the saddlehorn, trying to wrench himself back into the seat before he eventually does. The crowd cheers when he’s seated again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make two more passes. The knight fares better the second time around, but on the third, he’s sent into the dirt as his mount continues without him, and Paz settles with ease at the opposite end. The crowd has gone quiet and Din smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes drift towards the stadium seats, and with little issue, spots Cara’s target. He’s a man dressed in black, surrounded by guards who wear bits and pieces of armor that are far too close to the white metal of stormtroopers. Din finds his stomach twisting again and he turns on his heel, walking back to his mount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his own turn comes, it is a knight of Naboo who lines up beside him. He wears shining armor, made of iron but buffed to perfection, and even Din’s own silver does not shine so bright anymore. He appears young, still in his twenties as he places his helmet on. A nervous glance is thrown towards Din. Din looks back at him, expression blank, and the man looks away from his visor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They trot into the arena. The crowd bursts into cheers again, calling out, and they make their way towards the senators’ side. They line up beside each other. The knight removes his helm, bowing low. Din dips his head in a short bow before straightening up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir Ivar deNass of Naboo, fifth of his name,” the announcer calls, reading off the scroll in his hands. There’s a soft cheer. “Facing Mando of Concordia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence follows his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They part to opposite ends. Din’s heart pounds in his chest. He looks up spot his son; far from the target, yet still worryingly close, Bryna sits with the child. He’s seated in her lap and when Din looks, he pushes up to wave both hands. Bryna waves, too, and he nods to them before coming to a stop at his end. A squire runs over and stops beside Crest, lifting up the lance, and Din takes it. It’s… awkward. He tucks it beneath his arm, the weight strange, and mentally he kicks himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have partaken in the jousting as a boy. His training master </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>focused elsewhere, but he had chosen to not joust in his spare time. The older boys were the ones who did so. He had been young and new and far too afraid to dare ask the Mando-born to let him ride, too. He had looked at boys like Paz, big and steady and sure of themselves, and knew he would be thrown into the dirt every pass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he settles on his horse and looks towards Paz, who watches from the tunnel. He gives Din a nod. Din nods back, then turns his head towards his competitor. Crest is steady beneath him, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Buckethead.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The insult is hissed from behind. It’s loud enough for him to hear. Following it is a sea of snickers, but Din doesn’t turn, letting the insult roll off his armor like drops of rain. Cara refers to him as such with affection, and he does not mind it then. But those in the safety of anonymity will mutter it, regarding Mandalorians like the plague.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flagman steps into the center of the post, banner held high. Din grips Crest’s reins. Then the flag waves down and at the same time, the horses take off. Crest’s hooves dig into the dirt and kick it back before she’s flying down the side of the post and Din sits tall, eyes focused on the grand guard fixed to the Naboo’s shoulder. His heart pounds. At the last second, he thrusts out the lance, bracing his body for impact. He feels the other’s lance slam into his shoulder, jerking him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horses slow to a trot and then to a stop at the opposite end. Din looks down at the splintered lance in his hand, the throbbing in his shoulder where he took the hit. A squire runs over with a second lance and Din makes the trade. The crowd is sounding and jeering. Perhaps it is more insults, shouted at him from behind, but he can’t hear it. His heart is in his ears. For a few tense moments, both ready themselves for the second pass, and he rolls his shoulders back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crest snorts. The flagman steps into the center. Din takes a deep breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other horse gets the first start, heeled into a gallop just a beat before the flag lowers. Din follows suit. This time, he feels more sure of himself, and he raises his lance. The horses’ hooves pound against the earth and Din keeps both eyes open, aim shifted. His target is small. But he’s picked pinecones from trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lance tip finds the grand guard and this time, shatters completely. The other lance slams into his pauldron, but Din is better prepared for it and he holds strong against the strike. His thighs and core lock, gripping Crest’s reins. As Crest slows from her gallop, Din steadies himself in the saddle, then twists to look back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Naboo man is in the dirt, pushing himself up with one arm as his horse gallops to the other end. His lance is broken beside him and he’s slow to rise, getting to his knees before clutching at his shoulder. Crest slows to a walk and comes around. Din watches as another man in Naboo clothing runs out to the jouster, helping him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another squire runs a lance to Din. He takes it up, continuing to watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The competitor holds his shoulder, but hobbles back towards his horse. As he reaches up one hand to his horse’s saddle, helped up to remount, the crowd cheers and shouts. Crest’s tail flicks. Din grips her reins and as sweat drips down the back of his neck, he hears the jeers that mix in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Murderer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets it roll off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knight is handed another lance, and he takes it up. But his arm does not lift high. Din rubs Crest’s neck and watches as he struggles to do so, to raise the lance in any way that could allow him to aim its tip. But after enough of a fight, he slumps, and the squire hastily takes the lance back. After a few more seconds, the knight begins to dismount, and Din turns towards the official nearby as the crowd makes a disappointed sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is forfeiting?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems to be,” says the official, but his expression towards Din is one of distaste. “... You take the match.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns. As the knight is led towards the tunnel, his shoulder held, Din begins to dismount. The crowd has quieted to a murmur and there is no fanfare about his win. His lance is given back to the squire and he takes Crest’s reins, walking her towards the tunnel. He does not feel victorious. Paz meets him, clapping him on his back, but there’s an unsettled feeling in his gut. He turns to look back, and his eyes are drawn towards the target’s seating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s too far, but Din gets the sensation of their gazes meeting. Then, he looks to Cara, Bryna and the child. But they are gone, and Din’s heart leaps into his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did just fine,” says Paz. “Ride like that and you’ll take every match.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you see them leave?” asks Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz turns his gaze and it lingers, but he turns back. “I did not,” he says. “But they may have just gone to walk. The boy may have been restless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns. The boy does hate to stay seated for so long, and Din is prone to worrying. He turns back and they return to the competitors’ area, where the horses can feed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the day has drawn to a close, half the competitors have been eliminated. Paz sweeps three more wins, appearing barely fazed by any strike against him, while Din takes two more but they’re hard fought and the last match nearing throws him into the dirt. They’re tired and sore, and though Mandalorians are skilled riders, Din does not want to sit in a saddle any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need a good, hot bath,” Paz mutters as Din takes a moment to stretch. The sun is setting, a brilliant orange and pink color shooting across the sky, clouds appearing as though they are on fire. “A good dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cara and Bryna haven’t come back,” says Din. He looks around. Many of the competitors have already left, and the crowds are beginning to stream from the stadium to return to the city. Among them, he anticipates Cara, Bryna and the child walking to them. But they do not appear and Din frowns, stepping to look in towards the tunnel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz turns, too. “... Perhaps they already went back,” he says. “They may have been tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din hesitates. His mind is open but the child’s presence is gone. It leaves him on edge and he shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, and he presses his hand against Crest’s shoulder. “You can go. See if they went back. I will look, they may be waiting elsewhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds Crest’s reins out and Paz takes them. He stares at Din, but nods. “If they are not there, I’ll come back here,” he says. “If I don’t return, then come up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods. “Thank you,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Paz turns and begins to walk, Din turns the opposite way. Much of the crowd has disappeared, filtering out through the stadium gates, and Din walks into an empty arena. The dirt is settled down beneath his boots, pebbles crunching under his steps, and a cold breeze goes past. It rustles his cloak and he looks around. The women are not in sight, and the child’s presence still does not reach for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The target, as well, is gone with all of his men. Din walks towards the post, setting his hand on it, and watches the last person walk out. “Cara?” he calls. There’s no response. “Bryna?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts towards their seats. The silence feels haunting, and his stomach drops with a sense of dread he cannot name. There’s footsteps and he whips around, but it’s only a man starting to sweep the seats. He frowns, turning back, then dares to step through into the tunnel that circles the inside of the stadium. It’s dark here. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Kadas’ika?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence rings back at him. But the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and not just from the cold. His heart threatens to pound. Slowly, he reaches for his dagger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A footstep crunches behind him and Din spins around, facing down three shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all lunge for him at once. Din drops into a low, planted stance and grits his teeth when the weight crashes in, and they’re all sending to the ground in a pile. He jabs out with the blade, sliding it into an open spot between an attacker’s ribs, and the man on top of him lets out a hushed gasp. Din twists, then shoves him off onto another one before he’s pushing himself up. He dashes towards the archway, to just reach the light so he can see, when his ankle is grabbed and he crashes to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weight drops onto his back and the air is forced out of him. Din strains to breathe but pushes himself up again, slamming his elbow back, only to hit a chestplate. An arm bars across his throat, pulling back, and he chokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wound, don’t kill—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helmet—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Said not to touch—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din reaches out and grasps a hand around the handle of his dagger. One hand pulls on the arm on his throat and the other stabs the blade into the wrist, dragging it down, and the trooper screams before letting go. Din surges up, getting to one knee, and jams the dagger again into the next trooper. He’s grabbed and shoved back, even as blade digs in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s struck across his helmet, his head snapping to the side from the impact. He gasps, stunned, and reaches for a sword he doesn’t have. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The weight crashes into him again and he’s on his back, arms pinned by each panting trooper, one on top of him. A knee is on his stomach, weight pressing in, and hands seize his throat. He makes a strained grunt before pulling as hard as he can, only to be given nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cannot breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t kill him,” snaps one. “The master needs him to talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t let up, he’ll kill us—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll end up dead one way or another if you do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot breathe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Panic fills him, any training replaced by instinct to live, and he squirms as hard as his body will allow. The troopers hiss and move to pin him more thoroughly, allowing him the briefest bit of air before it’s gone again. He kicks, slamming his knee up into the man on top of him’s back, but he only gets a grunt and the hands tighten on his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darkness creeps in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get the rope,” one mutters. “Who’s good at knots?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s out.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a<br/>Nekaanyc - unarmed, disarmed<br/>Jate kadas'ika - good cub</p><p>The <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Howler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din faces the threat.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">Discord</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/coffee_quill">Twitter</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>They stand at the edge of the trees. Three Mandalorians crouch amongst the branches, watching the flickering candles in the window of the farmhouse. Din reaches for an arrow from his hip, and with numb fingers, attaches it to his bowstring.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They haven’t done anything,” says the boy beside him. Quail is under fifteen, his Creed spoken just before their exile, and he shifts nervously to shake the branch. Din and Arla look at him, then back to the house. In the window, the farmer’s wife walks with a baby in her arms, and the husband is walking towards the house now from the river.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They have food and fires,” Din says. “We aren’t going to kill them if we don’t have to.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It will be fine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What if they fight us?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Din scowls and turns on the boy. “We lost another child in the night and the rest have nothing to eat,” he snaps, his voice a growl. “I have a </span>
  </em>
  <span>vod’ika </span>
  <em>
    <span>to feed. Our people are dying. If you’d rather run back and hide—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But our honor—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Honor doesn’t stop our people from dying,” Arla says, and she hefts her axe before jumping down from the tree. She lands in the snow and stands. Din follows, swinging down, and they start towards the house. Quail is silent, but then he lands in the snow, too, footsteps crunching as he catches up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It almost goes smoothly. When Arla breaks the lock with a swing of her beskar axe and Din kicks it open, the residents scream but Din is sure they will back down. Until the farmer pulls a crossbow from beneath a rucksack and Din’s arrow flies, the string rolling off numb fingers. The farmer collapses against the wall with a cry, and his wife screams, the infant crying in her arms.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Din turns, and she grabs the knife off the table, Arla is there first. She drops her axe to slip a blade between the woman’s ribs and when Din turns, the wife is down. Arla is calm as she takes the infant from her arms, looking down at the screaming child.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Another mouth to feed,” she says.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Din is quiet. “There will be someone who wants him.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Silvess.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Din nods and looks towards Quail, whose hands tremble at his sides. “Let’s go,” he says.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But—” the boy’s voice has a shake to it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They didn’t give us a choice. The children will be warm here.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Din grabs his hand and drags him along, back into the cold snow, to fetch what’s left of their people.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din comes to his senses. His hearing is there first, and he can hear the soft, melodic voice of someone saying his name. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Din,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hears, whispered above him. A hand traces over his collarbone, firm but gentle. “Din.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes open. With a gasp, he pushes himself to sit up, only for his arms to give out. He looks up at Bryna, who sits beside him, and his heart is racing in his chest. She grabs at his arms and gives him a push. “Stay down,” she says. “Don’t speak. I tried to heal your throat but I can’t be sure how your vocal cords are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares up at her. He lies back down but looks around. Wherever they are, it appears like a dungeon, dirty stone surrounding them with iron bars that keep them locked in. He tests his fingers, wrists, arms, and then his legs, but nothing feels broken or worse than a bruise. His head is pounding but his helmet is in place and Bryna takes his hand into hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My boy,” he whispers, unsure if his voice is hoarse from being choked or being asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna hesitates. She swallows, and when tears prick into her eyes, his stomach drops. “They took him somewhere,” she says. “He’s… he’s okay. I can feel him, through the Force, but he’s… so </span>
  <em>
    <span>upset. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t know where. I don’t know what they want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Imps.” He can still spit the word out. Bryna stares at him. “Hells…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cara is here.” That draws his attention back to her and Bryna gives his hand a squeeze. “Across the hall, but she’s… asleep now. The man — he…” she trails off, expression twisted with uncertainty. “He wants to know who’s after him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes to sit up again and this time, Bryna does not stop him. He reaches up to rub at his throat and he does not feel as terrible as he may have expected to after being choked, so her healing certainly helped. He clears his throat and it does not hurt so bad. As he takes stock of himself, he finds that he’s better off than he had let himself hope. “Where are we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A keep, some m… miles away — Mando, wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din pushes to get up. Bryna grabs at his arm but Din pulls away, getting up to his feet, even as he’s hit with a wave of nausea. He grasps at the stone wall to steady himself, and behind him, Bryna stands. “Need to find him,” he pants, leaning his helmet into the wall as he gains his bearings. His head aches. He reaches down to find his blades missing, though his armor and cloak remain untouched. He turns to look at Bryna. “How long was I out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They brought you… ten minutes ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din takes a deep breath, then twists to stretch and winces as his body pops. He’s beginning to wake now, though his body protests his movement. He begins to look at their surroundings more closely and finds that there is a small window at the top of their cell, but it is barred and barely reveals the stars beyond. The sun has set. There is a bench chained to the wall to provide a few seats. He turns and finds the door, giving it a push and pull, but it stands firm with little give. He grips the bars and lets out a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paz should be looking,” he says. He had said he would come back if he did not find Cara and Bryna in the city, and if he has returned, then he knows Din is disappeared, too. It gives him little comfort, though, for he cannot be sure that Paz will find this place. He takes a moment and turns to look at Bryna, who watches him with arms tight around herself. “... Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna nods, but her hair is a mess and there are dried tear tracks on her face. She rubs at her arm as though cold and nods before beginning to bite at her nails. Din watches with a twinge of sympathy and feels the cold breeze come from the window before he reaches up to unclasp his cloak. “Here,” he says, and steps closer. Bryna steps in as well, and lets him drape the cloak around her shoulders, hooking it at her collarbone. The fur makes her seem smaller, and she pulls it around herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise you, I will get you out of this,” he says. “I’m sorry you were dragged into our perils.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apology accepted,” whispers Bryna, and she reaches out to take his hand in hers again. She squeezes, and he feels a sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>strength, determination, courage </span>
  </em>
  <span>enter him in a way not unlike what the child does. But this is not communication of a young child’s feelings, rather what she desires him to feel, and he begins to feel renewed. “I believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din grips her hand. Then, he turns away, and he returns to the iron bars to grab them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cara,” he calls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the room, a good several paces, is another cell. The torchlight is dim, but within it, he can spy a body facing away. Cara’s armor is just illuminated enough to recognize, but she does not move, and Din’s stomach threatens to drop. He looks towards either side of the empty room, but cannot spot a guard anywhere. He turns his head back to Cara and raises his voice. “Cara!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Cara jerks, and she turns over. Her face is then illuminated in the dim light, half-asleep, before her eyes widen at the sight of Din and she is then awake. She rises to her feet and comes to the bars of her cell, grabbing onto the bars as Din does. “Din?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” he demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Din lets out a breath of relief, but he cannot possibly be comfortable while his child is out of sight. He grips the bars tighter. “He wants to know who his hunter is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara nods, and her eyes are focused as though she is well aware of the danger she is facing. “He doesn’t… </span>
  <em>
    <span>know,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says, the words coming slow and careful as her gaze darts towards the side of the room. Din looks, but there are no guards in sight. She taps on her own chest. “But knows of…” She pauses, hesitation in her face, and points at Din. Din’s brows furrow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart drops, then. His grip tightens further on the bars, ready to bend the iron himself if he could, and his jaw is tight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>says Bryna behind him, “I don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din turns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika </span>
  </em>
  <span>means ‘little one’ in my language,” he says. “Son, or daughter. The target knows… </span>
  <em>
    <span>of </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>ad’ika.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna stares at him from where she sits on the bench but her eyes become wide with realization. “As in…” she begins, but she does not continue and instead raises her palm. Din nods, letting his hands slip off the bars, and her expressions turns into one of fear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found my son when an Imperial commissioned a bounty hunter to find and bring him in,” says Din. “I did not know I was hunting a child, but they wanted him for his abilities. I realized my mistake in time, and killed Moff Gideon. But I don’t know how many Imps were involved in this, and I did not think this man to be close enough for involvement, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will they do with him?” she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Imperial physician stands over the sleeping child, small knife in hand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” says Din. He wrenches his gaze away and instead turns towards Cara, looking through the bars. “Have guards come through on a rotation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once, just before they brought you here,” says Cara.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din digs his teeth into his lip, then reaches down and begins to feel along his belt. He shoves his fingers down into his boots, feeling, until he brushes against metal. He grasps a small handle and pull out a miniature dagger, almost pathetically small and for quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>emergency </span>
  </em>
  <span>uses. But he slips it between his second knuckles and runs his hand against the bars of the cell before walking back to Bryna. He sinks down onto the bench beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you fight?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some, but I’m no warrior,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I get you a dagger, will you know what to do with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m familiar with stabbing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din lets out an amused breath. “Good,” he says. “I’m certain we’ll be fighting our way out of this, and I will protect you. But best if I know I can take my eyes off you without worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna draws his cloak closer around her and nods, tendrils of hair falling in her face. “You can,” she says. “And best if I can take the child and leave you free to fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” he agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles at him, and he finds that he rather likes making her smile. When she shuffles close and leans her head on his pauldron, he nudges her away — and she pulls away sharply, face heating. He reaches down and draws the edge of the cloak up over his shoulder, then tugs her back, and she stares at him before leaning in again. Now, the fur covers the cold beskar, and she rests her head against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From across the room, Cara watches, and Din can see the smile on her face. He ignores it, and settles in to wait, twirling the small blade between his fingers. As Bryna settles, too, he steels himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to reach out for the child. He has tried before, but without the boy’s same ability, he cannot go beyond his own mind. Instead, he finds himself waiting in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence hurts him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands turn to fists, and from the outside, a wolf howls for its cub.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it was not his </span>
  <em>
    <span>ba’buir </span>
  </em>
  <span>soothing him to sleep, it was his </span>
  <em>
    <span>buir, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and his stories were of warriors and battles and the foundlings they brought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do not just fight for our </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mand’alor,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he told Din. “We fight for our families. For our brothers and sisters. We fight for our children, our future, like you. It is why we take in others who are not born like us — others like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Children are precious, he said. They are to be protected, never harmed, never abused. They are to be raised strong so that they protect the tribe, the pack. “A lone wolf cannot survive. But the pack can. We must protect our pack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be a wolf.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din liked his father’s stories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guards come through in the next hour, but it is not a patrol. Three men come to the door, looking at the two for a long moment before one tosses a length of rope through the bars. The trooper’s helmet turns towards Bryna. “Bind him,” he says, his voice stiff and stern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna sits up, staring at the rope, and looks at Din. Din’s eyes flicker between the rope and the troopers, suspicion stirring in his gut. After a moment, he looks to Bryna and nods, and she rises. He stands as well and holds out his wrists for her to begin looping the rope around. She lets out a shaky breath, but her hands are steady, and she begins on a loose knot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tight,” he murmurs beneath his breath. Bryna falters, then pulls it tight. No sense putting herself in danger. “It’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s hesitant, but ties the knot tight. He tests it, and her hands come away, looking up at him with hesitance. She reaches up to unclasp his cloak, but he shakes his head and she freezes. “Keep it,” he says, and she nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps past her to the door and the guards each raise their swords and shields, eyes distrusting behind their helmets. One begins to creep forward, shoving the key into the lock, and turns it. The door shrieks as it eases open, and Din steps out of its way before crossing the threshold. Two guards then grab either of his arms, the other keeping their sword trained on him. He’s dragged forward and Din only throws a look towards Cara as he stumbles, catching his feet beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay safe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The thought appears in his mind, and at first he reaches desperately for it, thinking it to be his son. But it’s Bryna’s presence that has crept into his mind, bringing as much strength and courage as it can muster, and Din welcomes it for now. As he’s pulled towards steps leading up, a spiraling stone staircase, her presence retracts and he’s alone again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move it,” one spits at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think it’s real beskar?” asks another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it’s real, it came from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gideon,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the first one snaps back. “Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body goes cold, a chill descending down his spine. So the target knows who he is. The interest in his son gave him suspicion, but such comments confirm it — </span>
  <em>
    <span>how many others know?</span>
  </em>
  <span> At the top of the stairs, they walk through a short hallway. There’s a series of doors on either side, and the stone turns to carpet beneath his feet, lights turning from torches to chandeliers and more troopers standing guard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grips the blade between his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk through another archway, make a turn, and through a third. Din stops in his tracks, terror striking through him, as he’s dragged forward into a reception room. Tables are lined on either side as though seating many for a feast, and at the far end of the room is a raised dais with another long table. Behind it sits the target in a high-backed chair, a mocking throne, dressed in the dark clothes of a lord.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep quiet,” the man drawls. He’s older, like the Client, with a sickeningly sweet tone to his voice. “All of you. Don’t wake him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby is fast asleep in his lap, cradled by the man’s arm. His wolf fur is gone, wrapped instead in a black woollen blanket, and Din feels a fire stir in his belly, a rage that roars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From behind, his knee is kicked out, and Din collapses down on it with a pained hiss. His other knee is given the same treatment and the fabric of his tunic’s collar is fisted, two swords resting against his throat. His breathing comes controlled and labored as the asset stands, cradling the child like precious cargo. The boy stirs, letting out a mumble before settling again, and Din’s heart is pounding. His blood runs hot, and yet he restrains himself, only for his boy’s sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard whispers of you.” The man walks around the table, a leisurely stroll, before coming around to stand before Din. He’s forced to look up. “Mandalorian. Bounty hunter. Warrior. But I did not hear that Din Djarin was a jouster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to earn money somehow,” growls Din. “Put him down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I ought to hold onto him.” The man smiles and looks down at the boy, running his thumb over his cheek. Din tightens his jaw, struggling to keep himself calm, and the troopers’ grips tighten on his arms. “Gideon will be pleased that his prize remains in one piece, without many scratches. Though, it seems you’ve left a few scars on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him with confused eyes, but his stomach drops once again. “Gideon is dead,” he says. “He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I killed him myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My own correspondence begs to differ,” says the man, smirking at Din as though the revelation is what delights him. “I’ve already sent word of your presence to the Moff. He will have the boy. But I wish to cut you a deal that may alleviate both your situation and mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to deal with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All I ask is that you give me a name.” The man bends his knee in front of Din, and the child is so close that Din could reach out if not for his bound hands. He can see the dried tear stains on his boy’s face. Din forces himself to look upon the man’s face instead. “There is one who hunts me. I know Korvell, the damn man, will not give up with his bounties on me. Tell me the name of the man who tries his hand this time, and I will release you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks at him. He is slow to shake his head. “I know no name,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lie,” sighs the man. “I have my own ears in places, Mandalorian. I know my bounty has been given out. I know it is the Nevarro section of the Guild that has given it, and Greef Karga employs you. Shall I assume you are my hunter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am on no commission. You will find no bounty letter on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The target scowls at him. “I would release you for the name,” he says. “This child is enough of a gift. To say you escaped my guards would not be such a difficulty. You could walk out of my home, Mandalorian, with all your winnings and not look back.” He stands, looming over Din as he looks down at him. “I’m sure your prize money weighs more than this child does, and your two women can do plenty to keep you warm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din does not respond. As they only stare into each other, neither moving, the man finally breaks first and snaps his fingers with a furious scowl. “Take him back!” he commands. The guards obey, wrenching Din up to his feet, and he allows it. “Your men can do with him as they please. I do not care for messes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child begins to stir. His eyes open as though awoken from a trance and he blinks before his gaze drifts towards Din. “... Papa,” he says, and he starts to squirm from the blanket he’s wrapped in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Papa.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The man only grips him tighter, furious gaze still fixed on Din. “Your papa is indisposed,” he snaps, and turns to walk towards the side chamber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” the boy shouts. “No — Papa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take him back—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby screams, a relentless sound that makes them all wince at once in pain. It’s long and high pitched, and several tables jerk at once, pushed out of place by an invisible entity. The troopers each gasp in shock, and then turn to flee from the tantrum, dragging Din with them. Din steels himself and wrenches against the grip of one trooper, slipping the small blade between his fingers, ready to pounce and slice—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child’s consciousness slams against his own. Din stumbles, pain blossoming in his mind like a physical wound, and he collapses to his hands and knees. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Kadas’ika,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he pleads, his heart pounding in his chest, and he pushes up but then one body is on top of him. Another joins in, relentless, troopers piling their weight on top of him, armor clattering, and with bound hands he cannot fight the way he wants. His boy is so close, right there, straining to reach him as well—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something slams into the side of his head, rattling against the beskar, and he’s stunned. For a few seconds, he goes limp, and can only squeeze his eyes shut as he groans. Then, he is being grabbed and dragged, and he snarls before wrenching against it — another hard blow. He grits his teeth and twists, a door slams, he can see nothing beyond the bodies of more troopers—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere, his hand grasps a sword’s handle and he pulls it. A trooper shouts, but he plunges the blade into the body of a man and earns a scream. He rips it out and slashes at the arms trying to grab him, earning another, heart pounding, blood pouring and spraying. He’s come to his feet, and the troopers who tried to pin him now stumble backwards, drawing their blades. Four stand against him, and the man has disappeared with the child, drawing Din’s eyes to the side chamber’s door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his head turns, a trooper steps in, taking a swing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din whips around and their blades meet in a clash. He kicks his heel out and the trooper stumbles back, and he turns on a dime to fend off another. He swings down and slashes across the guard’s thigh, and the man screams, collapsing as blood pours. He swings straight into the next man, slicing across his ribs, and the armor gives way to the sword but its edge has become dull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last two troopers both step in with shouts. Din ducks beneath and stabs the sword into one’s hip before turning, grabbing another, thrusting the blade through his gut. The trooper releases a strained whine of pain before he collapses and Din steps back, taking a deep breath. The hall has fallen silent around him and he twists the sword in his hand to saw through the ropes. They fall at his feet and he rushes for the side chamber, but the door is locked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slams his forearm against it with a frustrated growl, beskar rattling against the wooden door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he shouts, and he steps back to drive his heel against the wood, but it does not give and the adrenaline threatens to leave him exhausted. Though his rage does not lessen, his mind clears. He imagines what else may be waiting for him on the other side, and instead thinks of Cara and Bryna in the dungeons below. The options weigh in his mind and though he wants nothing more than to raze the building down, he needs support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns and steps over a body, reaching down to draw its fresh sword. His footfalls echo through the hall as he runs back for the dungeons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Din!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dungeon keys hang on a hook, driven into a post beside the doorway — convenient, but Din will not complain. He grabs them off the hook and storms to Cara’s cell first, beginning to try the keys until one slides in. His hands tremble, and Cara grabs onto the bars in front of him, eyes big as she looks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” she demands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Din. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do you know where the kid is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A key finally fits. “Gideon,” he says, and turns the key. The lock pops open. He wrenches the door ajar and then turns to head to where Bryna is caged. “Gideon is alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>demands Cara, stepping out. She is right at his back, no help as he has to fumble again through the keys. One does not work, nor the next, and Bryna stands just beside the floor as her expression is worried. “What do you mean? Gideon is </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>snaps Din, lashing out in a way that he knows Cara does not deserve. “Your target has </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>association with him and is going to give the boy to him. He offered to let </span>
  <em>
    <span>us </span>
  </em>
  <span>go if I told him which man is after him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man,” Cara repeats. “He has no suspicion, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told him I know nothing, but he’s taken the boy somewhere. We must go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll find weapons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara’s footsteps recede at a run and finally he jams the correct key into the lock. He turns it and the door pulls open with another shrill squeak. Bryna steps through, his cloak dragging against the ground behind her, and she looks at him with soft eyes but a determined expression, and a look of understanding passes between them. “We’re finding him,” she says, and steps around Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din takes in a breath and then turns to follow her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up here!” Cara shouts from up the stairs, and Bryna and Din are both swift to follow her voice. She stands at the corner, then walks out of sight, and they follow into a small armory. Din stops and stares at the blades adorning the walls, the hanging bows and barrels upon barrels of sharp arrows. There are stacks of iron shields and on a table rests two crossbows with small quivers of bolts beside them. Din’s eyes linger there, and he walks over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t the most plentiful armory he’s ever seen, but that does not faze him nor Cara. Cara begins to gather weapons off the walls, slipping a shield onto her arm and taking a sheath to slide a sword into. Din takes a crossbow into his hands, then a bolt and settles it by his feet to place the bolt and pull back the lever. It’s heavy, but clicks into place and he sets it down facing the wall. He looks at the swords and then the one at his hip before moving to replace it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chamber is silent but for the sound of them collecting weapons. Din’s stomach continues to twist with relentless anxiety as he grabs a sheathed dagger, ornate in its handle but easy to wield. He turns to Bryna, whose hand has rested on the crossbow, and holds it out. “If you need it,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna looks at him with uncertainty, but she takes it and loops it around her waist, belting it in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to secure the outside,” mutters Cara, who adjusts the quiver strapped to her back. The two swords at her side don’t leave much room. “Make sure he doesn’t leave with the baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many does he have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed a good number when they grabbed us. You have a good amount of blood there. We must have made something of a dent.” Cara runs her hands over each belt buckle to be sure it’s in place before she turns towards the door. Din nods and they both turn—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a metallic </span>
  <em>
    <span>twack </span>
  </em>
  <span>and a scream. Din’s gaze throws up and he stares at the trooper in the doorway, collapsing as his sword falls from his hand to clatter on the floor. A crossbow bolt is buried beneath his arm, through the chink in his armor, and Din looks at Bryna who stands to the side with the crossbow hefted in her hands. She stares at the man who gasps in pain and steps back. Her eyes are frightened but she drops the crossbow down to her feet and starts to pull the lever back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din steps forward, drawing his sword, but Cara beats him to it. She throws a dagger and it buries itself in the trooper’s exposed throat. The body falls. He turns, then, to Bryna, but she’s managed to pull the lever back with both hands and loads in another bolt. Din stares at her for a moment. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Force.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s become the answer to anything strange that happens around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have it,” mutters Bryna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods, “Keep up.” Cara is already stepping over the body. “Right!” he calls, and she takes off at a run across the hall and down the corridor with Din close behind. The passage is short and they come to the thrown-open set of doors, the Imperial bodies piled still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They went through here,” says Din, out of breath. “I couldn’t break through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s near,” says Bryna, out of breath. She looks at Din. “I-I can feel him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks at the door, then to Cara. “Was there an—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts to look at Bryna again and the crossbow she grips between her hands. But Cara looks at him and turns, climbing up onto a banquet table that pushes up beneath a window. It’s stained glass, a mosaic of colors showing a woman, and she draws her sword, bringing it back before she crashes the round pommel into the glass. It splinters with a small hole but she’s quick to send her heel through to break it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara doesn’t finish before her eyes widen and she drops. Din hears a shout from the other side. Several dozen arrows come sailing through the window with shrill crashes of glass and bury themselves in the far wall. Din and Bryna both duck, turning away from the flying glass, and from beyond comes more loud commands. “Archers!” says Cara. “At least… seven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nine,” says Bryna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Draw their second wave,” says Cara.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have time,” says Din. Then, he scowls. “They’ve pinned us like this before! But they </span>
  <em>
    <span>have him.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another way out, then,” says Cara. She gets down from the table and sets off at a run. Din’s heart pounds with relentlessness as he follows, Bryna just behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The manor is massive, though, and they go from one hall to another with windows they cannot reach or no exits at all. Din’s frustration grows and Bryna begins to look ill, face contorted with the emotions she must sense from the child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara makes an abrupt turn and finally they come through a pair of open doors into the night air. Before them is an open clearing in front of the manor, a dirt path leading towards the city. The sound of horses leads them towards the right where troopers are struggling with two unruly beasts, trying to latch them to a carriage. The target stands nearby with the sobbing child in his arms, trying to hold the boy even as he fights the blanket he’s wrapped in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“NO!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Control them!” the target snarls, but the horses are far too distressed and the troopers back away from the bucking and rearing. Din can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the radiating emotions and draws his sword, a sort of rage overtaking his actions. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>shing </span>
  </em>
  <span>of metal draws their attention and the Imperials each whip around to face him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mandalorian!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Papa.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The child’s voice resonates in his mind again as it should. The distress and desperation behind it isn’t crippling, but energizing. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cub.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din’s feet move. In the bright moonlight, his armor flashes, and he ducks beneath an arrow before rushing in. His sword slashes across the throat of the trooper, blood spraying, and Cara is just beside him to drive a dagger between the plates of another. A third trooper takes aim, but a crossbow bolt finds the right side of his chest, sending him stumbling back and down the hill.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kill them—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Din sees only red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the troopers are dead, blood mixing with the dirt and grass, he rises from his crouch over the last body. The man continues to choke on his blood beneath Din but his gaze is turned on Cara’s target. Red is dripping from his front, splattered through his vision and smeared over the beskar. His shoulders rise and fall as he draws in breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give him to me,” he snarls, voice unrecognizable even to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The target stares at him. The moment stretches long, but his eyes drift to Din’s sword, drenched in blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>snaps Cara, raising her duel blades. On Din’s other side, Bryna hefts the crossbow, aimed low. She squeezes the trigger and the bolt fires with its metallic thwap, striking the ground at the target’s feet before scraping past his shin. He jumps, and the child falls from his arms. The child lets out a strained cry and the target backs up as Din lunges in to grab him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa,” the baby whimpers. Din gathers him into his arms and lifts him, a little face burying against his throat, and his hold is squeezing. Small fingers dig into his clothes. The distress begins to calm, and behind them, the horses settle.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Din murmurs. With an eye kept on the man, he sets the boy on his feet on the ground and runs his hands over him. “Hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby shakes his head, but the shoulder he fell on seems tender when Din touches there. Bryna crouches down beside them and the boy pushes into her arms, burying his face at her shoulder. As he looks up, Cara has already stepped in, metal cuffs retrieved off a trooper’s body as she wrenches the target’s hands behind his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gideon will have the boy,” the target growls. “I still have men. They’ll come now, and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hooves approach. They each freeze up, and as Bryna steps back with the boy in her arms, Din lunges to grab up the discarded crossbow. He starts to load another bolt when the horse nears and it’s Paz who comes around the corner. “Whoa!” he says to Blitz, who quickly begins to slow. His sword is bloody in his other hand, red speckling his own armor as well. He looks at Cara and the target, then Din’s blood-covered front, with Bryna shielding the child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Missed the fun,” he grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The target stares at Paz with a devastated expression, his realization of no help dawning on him all at once. Din finally slumps down to his hands and knees, head hanging down between his arms, as he takes deep breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Din?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna’s hand comes to the back of his shoulder. The baby grabs onto him from the same side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tired,” is all he can manage. It feels as though his rush of energy has disappeared all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any more?” asks Cara.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I handled a few, but most fled,” says Paz, voice approaching. Another hand settles on Din’s other shoulder in a firm grip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Vod. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Can you stand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din’s forearms tremble but he nods and pushes himself up. Paz grabs his arm to help him steady and after a moment, Din nudges him away. “Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the adrenaline leaves him, his pain is apparent. His knee protests all that it has gone through. He has aches and pains all over, some bruises and some cuts. His head pounds, his hands cramp from his grip. The baby grabs onto his leg, and Din bends down to pick him up and settle him on his hip despite it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” says Paz, exhaustion creeping into his own voice. “We can take those horses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happens here?” asks Bryna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can tip off the city watch,” says Cara, wrenching the target to his feet. “Let them investigate and handle it as they wish. Not our problem any longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna looks between them. The baby’s eyes grow sleepy and Din steps over to her. She gives him a smile and takes the child with care, letting him snuggle against her warmth, and draws the cloak up and around him. It has grown cold, and Din reaches out to snag Paz’s cloak, giving a tug before he steps to the side. Paz follows him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gideon.” Din looks up at Paz, weight shifted onto one leg. “Gideon lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz stares at him, and this is one of the times where Din cannot read his expression beyond the helmet. A moment of silence passes, and Paz’s shoulders slump, an exhausted sigh escaping him. They look at each other, then, with a shared sense of beatenness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get the boy warm,” is all Paz says, and he turns away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then walks to where Cara has dragged the target over to the two horses. She has taken the driver’s whip and made it into a sort of leash looping around the target’s wrists. Bryna follows, the boy content where he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” says Din, and they all nod.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a<br/>Vod'ika - little sibling<br/>Mand'alor - sole ruler</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">Discord</a><br/><a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a><br/><a href="https://twitter.com/coffee_quill">Twitter</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. To the Shores</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Mandalorians depart.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">Discord</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>
  <br/>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/coffee_quill">Twitter</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next morning dawns bright. Within the safety of their room, no one rises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din awakes late in the day. He rolls over, blinking his eyes open, a deep-seated soreness filling his body; he stretches out on the bed, hidden beneath the covers. He draws them closer around him, feeling the chill of the outside room, and soon hears the crackling of a fire in the hearth. He lies there for a few minutes longer, unwilling to move, preferring to stay in the warmth for as long as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the page of a book turning and realizes he is not alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully, he holds the blanket over his face and twists to peer out. There’s a burning fire in the hearth, the sun shining through the windows, and the room is lit up. Cara’s bed is empty. He turns further and sees Bryna sitting at the table, curled up in a seat with her back to him. She’s reading, paying no mind to him before she takes a sip of tea. She sets the mug down beside a plate of buttered bread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks around again, the baby nowhere in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can dress,” calls Bryna. “I’m not looking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din is slow to move, but he pulls himself out of bed. He walks, barefoot, across the creaking floorboards and gathers a fresh outfit from his belongings. He begins to dress in the new clothes, then his armor, taking the time to tie it securely. He slips his helmet on and soon stands, looking around with a hand at his collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to find his cloak draped over the footboard of the bed and walks over, picking it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it alright if…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna stands and turns, slipping a marker into her book before putting it down on the table. “How is your throat?” she asks, reaching out to take gentle hold of his wrists, looking up at him. He stares down at her. Her hair is braided back from her face, but the rest falls in waves down her shoulders. Her dress is a soft grey with a leather corset and with a spotted wolf pelt around her shoulders. Her loose sleeves have a stitched white pattern at the ends, and he twists one hand free to examine it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels well,” says Din. “I feel more… exhausted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you do. Your knee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Where is the baby?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was restless, so Cara and Paz took him to walk around. She’s leaving soon to bring her bounty back to Nevarro.” She pauses, watching Din’s hand on her sleeve. “I suppose you’d be going with her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks at her. “She has her bounty,” he says. “That was why I signed up for the joust. I have no reason to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” she whispers, her eyes downcast. Din feels her pull away. For a moment, he has the temptation to tug her back to him, but lets her sleeve slip from his grasp instead. Something about it feels unsettled, and for a moment he wonders if she is offering her heart too easy or he is not offering his own enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says, and does not elaborate further. Din frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize if I’ve slighted you,” he says. “I admit I’m not… the best with—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you have not—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, surprising them both into silence, and their gazes tear away to look elsewhere as Paz and Cara walk in. Din clasps his cloak back around his throat. “We heard you talking, thought you were up,” says Cara with a smile. “How do you feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child is cradled in Paz’s arms and he lets out a happy hum as he sees Din. Paz places him down on the floor and he toddles over to Din, who crouches down to draw him close. “Sore,” he says. “But sleep has helped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby looks unharmed and unbothered. The distress of last night seems to have faded in its entirety, as always seems to happen, though Din draws him close anyway. The boy smiles and snuggles his face in against the fabric of Din’s cloak, “Papa” mumbled beneath his breath, and Din strokes his fingers through the child’s hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Kadas’ika.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He looks up towards Paz and Cara. “It looks to be near midday. You aren’t at the tournament?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve pushed back the tournament.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... They have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara smiles as she slumps into one of the chairs, leaning back as her legs cross. Paz walks to the hearth and begins to place more wood on top of the dying flames. “I tipped the guards as to what went on last night and they sent a team to investigate this morning,” she says. “We went while you were asleep to see them swarming that keep. The heralds are shouting now that the tournament will resume tomorrow in order to ensure the senators are safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a day of rest,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am going to ride back to Nevarro within the hour to deliver my quarry,” says Cara. “Though I should like to see how the finals go, better not to risk friends coming to free him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends like Gideon,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room stiffens with the spoken name and Din watches Paz’s hands freeze, clenching them into fists before he stands. The baby turns to look up at Din with a questioning expression, then Bryna speaks from beside the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is Gideon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An Imperial Moff who is responsible for the destruction of our people,” growls Paz, voice thick with hatred. The child’s eyes turn towards him with concern and he twists away from Din to reach his arms up. Paz lifts him up onto his hip. “The Empire slaughtered our people when they knew they could not control us. Moff Gideon was one of many who oversaw the destruction but now continues to hunt us where he can. He murdered our tribe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din takes a deep breath, the emotion thick in his own chest before he swallows it back. “I thought him dead since the end of summer,” he says in a quiet voice. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come with me,” says Cara. She sits up in her chair. “The child cannot be safe while Gideon lives and word has been sent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would leave the tournament,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Din, I have my quarry.” She smiles. “You have no need to be in the tournament any longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns and leans back. Somehow, that had not quite occurred to him yet, that he was free of his half of the deal. He and Cara had agreed that his participation only extended for the amount of time that it took her to capture her target. Though he had been awaiting this over the past several days, he looks towards Paz and begins to feel almost an uncertainty in his chest. “You are staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I entered the tournament for payment,” says Paz. “I wish to walk away with as much as I can. You said you would come with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns to himself and looks at the child in his arms. The boy has snuggled himself against Paz and one hand is reached up into the furs of his cloak, one thumb in his mouth and another grasping at the material again and again. Together, their current winnings are more than handsome pay, and taking home the prize of the joust would see them comfortable for the next year. Suddenly, it seems he has two choices. Back to Nevarro with Cara, to a life alone again where he may not ever be able to meet with Paz again through circumstance. Or, remain and become a group of three, searching for their tribe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did,” he says, his voice soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eat,” says Paz. “Think on it. Messengers </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gideon can only travel so quickly. We have time to wait if not to linger — I will not hold you to words you said in different circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna looks towards him now and their gazes meet. Din swallows and again looks at the child, who is entirely at peace in Paz’s arms. He thinks of the other foundlings that may be out there, somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll think,” says Din.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His clan’s lessons embedded deep within him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you do not have your honor, you have nothing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they told him. He learned of what made up his honor — his word, to never allow a promise to be broken by his own choice. His protection of others, the innocent, children, as his own life held no greater value than theirs. His loyalty to his brethren — brothers and sisters all tied through their shared heritage.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Brethren, most of all, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Our strength is in our numbers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Cara adjusts the saddle straps, making sure it sits snug on her mount’s back, Din and the child watch. The bounty is bound tight in the hitched cart, glaring at them with hatred, gone completely ignored. The child has two fingers in his mouth, chewing as his other hand holds Din’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Cara turns and looks at them, crossing her arms. “... You aren’t packed, so I’ll assume you’re staying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gave my word to Paz,” he says. “That we would go with him to look for our tribe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gave your word when we still thought Gideon to be dead,” says Cara. “He said himself he would not hold you to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That should not excuse me breaking it,” says Din. He looks down at the boy, he looks back up. “Say goodbye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye,” the boy says in a quiet voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cara smiles and crouches, brushing her cloak back. “Can I give you a hug?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches her. His grip tightens on Din’s hand and he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your hand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks down at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Gaan,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby shifts between his feet, but gives no offer of his hand. Instead, he grabs onto Din’s cape and buries his face into it, one eye peeking out to watch Cara. She gives him a playful pout, but nods and stands up again. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll see you again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope,” says Din. She nods in agreement with a smile; it’s the best promise either can give. “Fair travels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair travels,” she repeats. She turns and walks to her horse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din and the child watch her disappear past the city gates, the cart rolling along behind her mount, and as they fade from sight a chilly breeze goes past. The boy shivers, then lifts his arms and Din picks him up to settle on his hip. “You need new fur,” he says, and the boy buries his face in his cape again. Din pulls up the hood of his new leather coat, an alternative until Din can make him something new, and begins walking back towards the inn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A </span>
  <em>
    <span>twang </span>
  </em>
  <span>draws his attention and they stop short before reaching the front door, now looking down towards the alleyway leading towards the back. The inn presses up against the city walls, leaving the courtyard where he and Cara had sparred, and the strong release of a bow draws his attention. He glances at the child, then begins to walk down, turning the corner. Paz stands behind the inn with his bow in hand as he draws another arrow from his hip. He nocks it, drawing back to where his mouth would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pah-ni,” says the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz’s focus doesn’t waver and the string rolls off his fingers to strike the center of a makeshift target, blanks of wood nailed to a post in the ground. The wood isn’t very thick and the arrow embeds itself deep amongst others, clustered together in the center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to split one,” says Din, and Paz turns now. “Impressive, but it’ll ruin the arrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has Dune left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just now,” says Din. He walks over and the boy leans away from him, reaching towards Paz with another soft call of his name. Paz looks down at him, then leans the bow against his leg before taking the boy into his arms. When he shivers, Paz reaches back and draws the cloak around him, and the child settles against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re traveling with me, then,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gideon is alive,” says Din in a quiet voice. “As long as he lives, the child is in danger. Guild work is solitary. I would rather…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz nods in understanding, hand stroking the child’s back beneath the cloak. He looks at Din before reaching down for the bow. “Care to shoot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks down at the bow before shifting his weight. “Sure,” he says. Paz’s bow is larger than his own but not by much. Mandalorian bows tend to be smaller, anyway, crafted to shoot from horseback. Din takes it and an offered arrow, turning to look towards the target.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa,” the child says as Paz backs away. Din looks at him, but he appears in no distress or discomfort, so Din turns his attention back towards the target. With the arrow in place, he lifts his arm and draws it back, gaze spying down the shaft of the arrow. He draws in his breath to hold, to steady his hand’s tremble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets the string roll off and the string </span>
  <em>
    <span>thwaps, </span>
  </em>
  <span>too loud to hear his arrow hit. He lowers the bow and looks as Paz whistles. His shot has split one of Paz’s clean in half and the Mandalorian walks towards the target, holding the boy with one arm as the other reaches out to examine the split.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What were you saying about ruining arrows?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz pulls out the arrows to settle them back into his hip quiver, feeding another to Din. “You’re staying,” he says. “I’m jousting. Do you plan to wait, or continue in the tournament?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Might as well,” Din mutters. He looses another arrow, satisfied as it hits just within the center. He goes through another shot before he turns and hands off the bow to Paz, trading places. The boy stands and watches them, and when Din approaches and crouches, he steps between Din’s legs and presses against his front. Din places his hands on the boy’s back and draws him close. “I have no desire to joust you. I know I will lose, if not be thrown off my horse. But it may ensure that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>win.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz chuckles and releases another shot, landing just to the right of the center. “Such a lack of confidence,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Realistic,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They trade the bow between them a few more times until the baby begins to whine and huff, stamping his foot with misery on his face. His cheeks have gone pale and rosy, lights tinting blue, and he shakes with the cold. They gather up the arrows and Din sweeps him into his arms, both venturing inside through the back door. The inn is lit and warm by candles and roaring hearths, the bar downstairs packed with patrons. They make an immediate turn for the stairs before any can see them, stepping into the rented room with the door shutting behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hearth is still burning hot. Din carries the boy to it and crouches down, reaching for a new log to throw on top, and the child whines again. “Sit here,” says Din. He settles the boy on the floor in front of the hearth and reaches for the blanket on the back of the chair. He wraps it around him, then layers his fur cloak on top. “A warm bath, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby sniffles and wipes at his running nose, drowning in the size of the cloak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>joust then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did Bryna leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just now,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m jousting,” Din mutters. He walks towards the other end of the room to grab out the child’s clothes. “She’ll need to watch him. I had not decided to stay…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz reaches out and catches his arm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ke'tayli gar kad o'r dalab, Din’ika,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he drawls. “You know she’d lay for you. Don’t get excited about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din freezes and then scowls, face heating. “Is that how you’ll speak of women, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not without certainty that I’m right,” says Paz with a laugh. Din pulls away with a huff. “Are you blind, Din? She has been looking at you in such a way. I don’t know for certain what happened while Dune and I left you two alone, but you were quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>healed </span>
  </em>
  <span>after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s none of your business—” Din cuts himself off and turns away. Though his face burns, he refuses to rise to it, even as Paz chuckles behind him. He fetches out the child’s clothes and then grabs the stacked metal buckets by the door. “I’m getting water for his bath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” says Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa?” the child questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right back,” Din grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he ventures back outside with the buckets, he feels the humiliation in his face even more against the cold air. He knows Paz’s teasing is light-hearted and familiar, but he… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are not terribly far off the mark and it frustrates him further. </span>
  <span>He has long since resigned to a solitary life on his own, taking neither wife nor husband, no children to pass his name onto. It seemed unimportant, anyway, when he has no valued Mandalorian name to begin with. A foundling, perhaps, if it was what fate decided, and fate has certainly made its decision, but he then felt even more content with his solitude — plus one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fills the buckets from the pump at the side of the inn and feels a wave of resignation again. Regardless, he and Paz plan to search for their tribesmen and are accustomed to traveling. He would not want to subject Bryna to the same, even if she agreed to accompany them. It is not an easy life, and not one he ever wants for his child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With two filled buckets, he comes back inside and back into the room. Paz glances at him and the child still sits by the fire, neither seeming to have moved an inch, and the baby watches with wide eyes as Din hangs both buckets above the fire to boil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child reaches his hand out, and Din takes it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a day of being deprived, the crowds at the stadium are even more boisterous than before. The day dawns beautiful and warm, and as Din and Paz arrive at the contestants’ area, Bryna meets them. The child makes a happy sound at the sight of her and the transfer from Din’s hip to hers is smooth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck,” she tells him, her voice quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, and he watches them walk away to find a place to sit. He swallows and draws his eyes away before Paz can catch him staring and instead begins adjusting his saddle. This time they refuse the help of overly nervous squires and Din ensures his stirrups sit where he wants them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he looks over his shoulder, surveying the rest of the competitors, he isn’t sure if he should feel confident or nervous that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>reach the final. Paz certainly will — he’s built thick and massive, his stallion just as strong, and Din has little belief that he can be knocked off by a lance’s single blow. He hasn’t before. But Din is smaller and the weaker opponents have already lost out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at other knights, not quite the shiny challengers like the man of Naboo, and instead sees armor tested by time and calm expressions. He brushes his hand over Crest’s flank and watches Paz mount Blitz with surety. “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck,” he calls. His own match is to come after. His stomach locks with nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz looks at him and nods before he takes Blitz’s reins and walks towards the stadium tunnel. Din looks around with shifting eyes and begins to follow on foot, pulling Crest with him, and feels a sensation of discontent as he walks through the tunnel. It isn’t far from here that he was attacked. Somehow it feels like his stomach steels further against the memory like a warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd is loud and overwhelming, sounding like it’s all around him as he stands at the tunnel’s end. He grimaces and tries to relax, but the nervousness sits in his veins with little relief. Again, an announcer shouts their names for the spectators, and the ring of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paz Vizsla of Concordia </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaves him feeling… something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of how long he has lived in paranoia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes follow Paz as he comes to one end of the arena, settling Blitz down before shifting in the saddle. A squire brings him the lance and he hefts it beneath his arm, Blitz stepping in place but then calm. Din shifts on his own feet as a hand pets Crest’s mane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz’s opponent is large as well, though not as sizable as Paz himself. Bigger than Din, perhaps — he’s closer to Din now, though it may be the size of the horse that throws off his estimate. A real challenge, then. At the other end, Paz sits tall and steady in the saddle, exactly as a Mandalorian should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks along the arena’s wall where officials stand. Thoughts run through his mind, and as the horses set off on their first pass, they’re scattered. The beasts gallop down the fencing until their lances rise and there’s a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>shattering </span>
  </em>
  <span>of wood on impact. Paz is thrown back, but he holds on. The other knight undergoes similar, nearly falling though he grips the reins. But the knight’s lance breaks in half while Paz’s shatters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din bites his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz takes the victory, in the end, and Din mounts Crest as his opponent trots up beside him. They glance at each other before beginning forward, coming into the arena’s light as the two previous competitors await to pass them. He shares a look with Paz, who gives him a nod, and he shifts in his seat with nerves.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They trot out into the arena and around the fence, guiding the horses to line up in front of the senators. His opponent takes off his helmet and dips his head; Din makes no move for his helmet, only copying the gesture. The man is younger than Din, but not by so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir Jakas Madak of Cortina,” says the announcer. “Second of his name, defender of Mavare. Facing… Mando of Con—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” says Din. He looks down at him and the announcer freezes, looking up at him in turn. For a moment, he hesitates, but his voice comes clear. “Din Djarin of Concordia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First? Second?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din tightens his grip on his reins, hesitant. He had been too young to know if he were named after another, and his lineage is destroyed. His clan is surely dead, even long before the covert’s destruction. He is still to search for the child’s kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no titles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Imp-slayer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cara has called him, raising a mug when they’d first met again after Gideon. But titles have never appealed to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... The last of my name,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The announcer pauses, then looks towards the senators again. “Facing Din Djarin of Concordia, last of his name,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His opponent leans over and they shake hands before turning towards their own ends. Like that, the moment is over, even if his heart continues to pound from the adrenaline of revealing his name alone. It should not scare him, he thinks. So few know it, and it is only to address him rather than any true meeting. He is the last Djarin in this world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A squire brings him his lance, and his body still whispers of what happened two nights past. He feels worn and tired but wide awake as well. A cool wind blows and he adjusts the lance beneath his arm, gripping the reins, and Crest is calm beneath him. A warm feeling pricks at the back of his neck and he turns, eyes scanning the crowd until he spots a familiar woman and child. He can’t make out their faces at this distance, but he sees Bryna’s hand move in a wave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back around and adjusts before the flag drops and he digs his heels in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crest listens to him like they’re in tune, breaking forward at speed. It comes on quickly, the other man approaching, until they lift their lances and find each other’s chests. Din feels the force hit him all at once; his own lance breaks off in two, but the other man’s shatters and he’s thrown back. He drops the handle and grabs forward at the saddlehorn, sliding off the side, and hisses—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands miss and he hits the ground on his back, grunting as the air is knocked from his lungs and his head hits the dirt. His foot is still caught in the stirrup and he’s dragged behind Crest as she begins to slow. He gasps as he tries to push away and not be stepped on when she curls towards his side, slowing to a stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he can only lie there, panting as the crowd cheers again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not anticipate help nor receives it. He pushes himself up, his back covered in dirt, and frees himself. His ankle aches from being tugged and he’s tentative as he puts his hands against Crest. “Good girl,” he mutters beneath his breath, grateful she did not break him further. He rolls his ankle about, then steps back into the stirrup and pushes himself up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another lance. He rolls his shoulders, tries to fill his lungs with air, shake it off. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again with the lance hefted into his arm, changing his hold of the reins again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the flag flies downwards a second time, he digs his heels in, now feeling more apprehensive. He squeezes his knees in to feel secure, ready to catch himself, when the lances crash against metal chest plates. This pass fares better and Din is winded but steady, even as both lances shatter. He drags the breath into his chest and guides Crest towards the end, where a boy is waiting with the next lance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he can unseat the man, he can tie their points. As he looks, his opponent is clutching at his chest where the grand guard sits. Din draws in a breath and takes up the next lance with a little hope, tugging Crest into position. The warm feeling pricks at him again, only he doesn’t turn when his eyes lock forward. He shifts and brings the lance up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure if the crowd has gone silent, or he’s simply blocked it from his mind. A few seconds later, as a lance sends him out of the saddle again and onto the ground, he can certainly hear them again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din pushes himself up from the ground with a groan, wincing at the terrible ache in his shoulder. His body felt off from the first fall and now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He gets onto his hands and knees before onto his feet, trembling, and clutches at his shoulder. He turns to see Crest has slowed to a stop at the end and begins to walk towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd cheers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The disappointment he feels seeps in, an odd sensation despite his lack of faith in getting far, anyway. As he takes Crest’s reins and begins back towards the tunnel, he blocks out the jeers and taunts that come his way with a sense of resignation. Crest comes along at his side and he manages to walk slow but steady despite his entire body feeling out of line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz awaits him at the tunnel’s entrance. He doesn’t try to speak over the noise of the crowd, only puts his hand on Din’s good shoulder, and it disappears quickly but they begin walking side by side. At the other end, the wind picks up and Din finds a tree stump to collapse onto. He pulls at his pauldron with a grimace until it comes loose and he lets it fall, rubbing at the joint beneath where it is tender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was pathetic,” he grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” asks Paz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We talk all this game of me against you in that final and then I lose my first match straight away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are no jouster, Din,” says Paz. “I was surprised you won your first match of the whole thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din sighs and leans his shoulder back, wincing as it makes a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He brushes dirt off himself, the words making him feel no better, and soon begins to strap the pauldron back on. “When is your next one?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two more,” says Paz. “Find your boy, Din. Relax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns away and Din watches him walk towards where Blitz stands. When they head towards the tunnel, becoming smaller and smaller, Din stands and sets a hand on Crest’s flank. He walks up to her front, hand sliding along her, and he stops at her front. She looks at him and throws her head back. Din presses his hand against her neck and her nose bumps into his helmet, almost nuzzling him. He smiles and gives her a few pats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soft call is carried by the wind and Din turns. Bryna walks over with the child held on her hip and they both come to the fence to meet, the baby reaching out for Din. “I’m sorry,” says Bryna in a gentle voice. “That looked painful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” says Din. He reaches out and takes the boy, settling him onto his hip, and the baby buries his face into Din’s shoulder. His arms wrap around Din’s neck and he nuzzles close, warmth radiating off him not just in heat but the Force, wrapping around them both. Din closes his eyes, feeling calm beneath the sensation, and strokes the child’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re done, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the boy still in his arms, he ties Crest’s reins to a post amongst other mounts before turning. He steps through the gate of the fencing and they begin walking around the stadium to where the stairs lead them up, into the seats of the crowd. Though eyes immediately turn to follow, they are not bothered, and they find seats high in the stands away from others. The baby is happy to settle in Din’s lap, eyes sleepy as he leans his head into Din’s shoulder, and Din rubs his back in soothing circles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll leave with him after this, then?” asks Bryna.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din shifts, watching the next two jousters ready themselves for their second pass. The baby’s fingers dig into his arm. There is a small space between he and Bryna, a gap he finds himself itching to close, and yet he holds back. “Yes,” he says. “We’ll ensure we have supplies before we go, but be gone before sunset to reach the village out east.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One man knocks the other from his horse and the crowd cheers. The baby lets out a distressed sound and curls tighter as he snuggles in. Din strokes his hair when Bryna speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No set destination beyond?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks at her for a moment. Her eyes are locked forward on the jousters as they prepare again for the last pass. “No,” he says. “We’ll have to search for our brethren wherever might be… realistic for them to hide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in place as Paz mounts for the last round before the final. The crowd’s excitement heightens, feeling louder and thicker, and it frustrates the boy enough for him to begin to wail. Din’s eyes tear from the scene and with an unsteady breath, he gets up and begins to walk down. Bryna’s eyes dart to him and she follows without a word down the steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They miss the first pass, view blocked as they make their way down from the stands. There is no shortage of quiet jeers made at him as they pass the spectators, though the glare from Bryna seems to quell some. The child cries into the fur at Din’s shoulder, unwilling to quiet down, until they’ve gone down the stairs and into calmer tunnels. There are men and women who linger here with bottles in hand, but as they come to an empty archway, they can see into the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh.” Din crouches down and sets the child on his feet, arms wrapped around him. “I’m here. I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa!” the boy cries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the child begins to settle, not so surrounded by noise, and holds onto Din tightly as Din strokes through his hair. He gently scratches and the child tucks his head beneath his helmet. His gaze then turns to the arena, watching as the two horses kick off, and feels anticipation churn in his stomach. Hooves slam against the ground until there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>crash </span>
  </em>
  <span>and both riders are thrown back, yet seated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy turns his head to look, too, as Paz and Blitz slow to a stop near them. While Paz takes no notice, turning Blitz around, the child squirms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Bavu,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Bavu? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pah-ni, <em>bavu?"</em></span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ba’vodu, </span>
  </em>
  <span>right,” says Din. He smooths the child’s hair back, nerves too worked to feel pride in the communication. Instead, he stands again with the boy on his hip and even the child now feels focused on what’s in front of him. Din turns to look at Bryna, “Do you know their score?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bryna shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din frowns and returns his gaze. The child is calm in his arms and the flag waves a third time, sending the horses off again. “Come on,” he mutters beneath his breath, and the boy looks up at him. He looks concerned as he reaches up and plants his hand against the cheek of Din’s helmet. But he looks back and the lances meet—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both shatter into a thousand pieces. “Oh,” the child says aloud, and Din watches Paz clutch at his shoulder. But the other rider takes it the worst, grasping desperately at the saddle horn before falling to the dirt. He’s dragged through the dirt and straw until he manages to twist his foot loose and the horse continues to the end. The crowd falls quiet and hushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stares at the scene. “Did he…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second rider, still gripping his shattered lance, jerks his helmet off and slams the splintered wood into the dirt before getting up. He storms towards his horse with a scowl etched onto his face, grabbing the reins, and the official jabs a flag into the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd, reluctantly, cheers once again for a Mandalorian. Din lets out a breath of relief and the child giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ad’ika! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Come here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The child reluctantly comes back to Din. The cattle in the pen outside of the city gates are far more interesting. But he returns to Din’s side and Din bends down to pick him up and settle on Crest’s back. “Papa,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More whores?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din stops, looking at him, then sighs. “Yes,” he says. “More </span>
  <em>
    <span>horses.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy pouts, but he grabs at the reins to fiddle with the leather and Din gives his leg a gentle pat. He checks through the saddlebags again to be sure that they have their things — their clothes are packed away. His bow and full quiver are in place. He and Paz have split the food. They have their new bedrolls. The credit for their winnings is safely hidden. They’ve all eaten, horses included, and Crest has a new saddle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps approach and he looks up as Paz comes around from Crest’s front. “We can head—” he begins, but he stops short as his gaze turns over Din’s shoulder. Din frowns but looks back to see Bryna approaching with an almost shy expression. “I’ll give you a moment,” he says instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” says Din in a quiet voice, just heard over the wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps a hand on Crest’s side but turns his body towards Bryna. She smiles at him. Her hair is pinned back but it still flies in the breeze, brushed back from her face, and her blue cloak flutters with it. Din gives a nod as the child coos at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to say goodbye,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din’s gaze tilts down. Her gloved hands fold together, wringing nervously, and he reaches out to take them. She looks up at him with widened eyes and he runs his thumbs over the back of her hands. “Thank you,” he says. “For all you’ve done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was no trouble.” She pauses. “Well, a fair amount.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and for a moment, they stand in silence. He can hear Paz’s voice and the child’s giggles. His mind races for words to say, finally spitting out something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stop and both let out a breathy laugh. He nods to her and she smiles before squeezing his hands. “Have you ever… written to someone?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... No,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well—“ she hesitates. But she pulls a hand away to reach into her pocket and pulls out a small slip of paper. She looks down at the scrawled contents before holding it out and he takes it to look at a written address. “I won’t expect you to. Whether you want to or not, you’ll be… busy. But if you ever have a moment and ink, and courier access. I’d…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” says Din. He folds the paper and slips it into a pocket on his belt. “If I can, I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles. She squeezes his hand, then steps past him to the child, who perks up at the sight of her. “I hope I’ll see you again, too,” she says, and steps up onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. The baby giggles and touches a hand to his cheek, looking delighted, and Din smiles. Bryna turns her gaze onto Din. “Perhaps you’ll find other jedi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her goodbye to Paz is brief, and she gives Din another smile, before she begins back towards the gates. Din watches her go with no lack of feeling in his chest, a certain stirring in his stomach that wants to follow. But he turns back towards his son and with surety that they have their supplies, climbs into the saddle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goin’, Papa,” says the child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we’re going,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paz mounts Blitz and they nod at each other. He digs his heels in and Din does the same, hooves clopping against the ground as they set off. They begin down the road at a slow pace as they head for the town at the distant shore, the child tucking back against Din with an already bored expression. Din shifts the reins into one hand and tilts his helmet up before pressing a kiss against the child’s head. The kid turns with a smile, then pushes up to press a kiss to Din’s jaw. Din smiles at him and drops his helmet back down before giving the kid’s hair a ruffle, earning a giggle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love, Papa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din reaches for the reins but stops, slow to take them into both hands again. The kid leans back against his chest and Din draws in a breath. “I love you, too, kid,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The path leads them far towards the shore. As they come to meet the cliffs, a steep drop down to the shore that marks the end of the country, they walk through the tall grass alongside it. The wind blows wild and the boy has fallen asleep where he lies. As shore-birds cry above them, Din looks towards Paz. “How much faith do you have that we’ll find anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some,” says Paz. “Perhaps members of fellow coverts, even if not our own. There </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>brothers out there, and we must keep moving if Gideon is not to find him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din looks towards the ocean. He can hear the soft roar of the waves beating against the coast and watch it recede. The child shifts in his arms but does not wake, chest rising and falling as he breathes. The coastal town is not far, lights in the distance that mark the promise of shelter within walls, and Paz rides beside him in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could give him better,” says Din.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s your boy,” says Paz. “Of course you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Din smiles to himself. In the distance, a wolf howls, and the child’s fingers dig into his arm. Din holds his cub a little tighter.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a<br/>Ke'tayli gar kad o'r dalab - Keep your blade in scabbard. (Rarely literal, mostly the meaning is "keep your dick in your pants")<br/>Din'ika - little Din (common form of childhood nickanmes)<br/>"Bavu" / Ba'vodu - uncle/aunt</p><p>Thank you for reading! Sequel planned..... soon.</p><p>
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        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mando'a<br/>Ad'ika - little one, son, daughter<br/>Jetii - jedi<br/>Ba'buir - grandmother/grandfather<br/>Bavodu'e - aunts/uncles<br/>Jate - good</p><p>My <a href="https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N">discord</a><br/>Follow me on <a href="https://coffeequill.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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